


Sacrifice

by CorvetteClaire



Series: Blood Link [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action & Romance, Blood and Violence, Childbirth, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 122,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15697287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvetteClaire/pseuds/CorvetteClaire
Summary: It's Harry's seventh year at Hogwarts. The war against the Dark Lord is coming to a head. Voldemort believes that Draco Malfoy can provide the means to destroy Harry. If the centaurs' portents are true, he may be right. Sequel to Thicker Than Blood and Adamant and Starlight.





	1. Prologue: Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third and final part of the Blood Link trilogy. I wrote it very recently - 13 years after finishing Part 2 - but I have tried to give it the same feel as the original stories. It is also set in the Pre-Order of the Phoenix world. This means, all major characters are still alive, Cornelius Fudge is still Minister for Magic, we've never heard of Horcruxes or Hallows, etc. But I have used some of the ideas and settings from the later books that fit.
> 
> My take on how the war ends is much simpler than JKR's, but since she worked it all out so magnificently, there wasn't much to be gained by trying to reinvent it on the same scale. I just told the story the way I liked and focused on the elements that I find most intriguing. Honestly, I'm more interested in human-sized conflicts, such as the one between Harry and Fudge, than in end-of-the-world-sized cataclysms. 
> 
> So this is my simplified, human-sized version of events, with Draco and the centaurs' portent at the center of it all. I hope you enjoy it.

 

****_Hated and loved. Coveted and spurned._  
_The trophy all seek though none value it._  
_The spoils of war ere the battle is fought.  
_ _His is the sacrifice brings victory or death._

_—_ The Centaurs’ Portent

 

**Prologue: _Dreams_**

The day was searing hot. The sky had a hard, brittle quality to it that hurt the eyes, and the lake looked as if it were made of polished steel. Even the reflections of mountains and trees in the lake's burnished surface seemed sharp-edged and dangerous. Draco found himself strangely drawn to the water, tempted to break the mirrored stillness with his fingers, if only to watch the reflected mountains shatter and dance, and dispel the feeling that the entire world was paralyzed by the heat.

He sat beneath a huge tree, his back to the trunk and his legs stretched out toward the lake. In deference to the weather, he had put off his Hogwarts robe and wore his lightest, most comfortable street clothes, but he still felt disgustingly sticky and dirty, with his shirt glued to the skin between his shoulder blades and his hair clinging to his neck.

Draco hated the heat almost as much as he did the cold, hated being inconvenienced and uncomfortable, hated having to change his habits to suit the weather. This last week of soaring temperatures had shredded his temper, until no one in the castle dared get within ten feet of him for fear he might hex them. Not that most of the population of Hogwarts cared to get within wand's reach of him anyway. He was, after all, the foul and perverted spawn of a Death Eater, murderer, madman, and all-purpose pariah.

A small, bitter smile tilted his lips at that thought. Granger had once referred to him as the Prince of the Undead, a title that seemed the highest of compliments when compared to the things he was called now. Maybe he should take to leaping out of dark corners, teeth bared, when unwary children ventured too near him, just to pass the time and live down to his reputation. He had to find some way to alleviate his boredom, or he'd soon be as mad as Fudge and the Ministry claimed. He'd already completed the coursework he missed last term, taken his exams, and done extra work in Potions and Transfiguration. He'd even taken up Ancient Runes—for _fun_. How mental was that? And all because Harry was gone…

Clamping down hard on his wayward thoughts, he pushed Harry's image ruthlessly from his mind and pried a stone from the dirt beside him. A flick of his fingers, and the stone sailed far out across the lake to land with a muffled _plunk_ in the water. It disappeared with barely a ripple, and the lake's surface fell still almost instantly, as if the weight of the superheated air above had ironed it flat.

Draco sighed and twitched his shoulders, rubbing his itching back against the tree trunk. That didn't help much, so he tried lifting his hair away from his neck, to get the air moving against his skin. All he accomplished was to snag the long strands in the bark of the tree.

"Sod it," he muttered. Letting his hair fall loose around his shoulders again, he settled into his former position and turned his eyes to the lake once more.

 _More than a month to go_ , he thought, fighting the tide of depression and resentment that rose in him. _Less than a week 'til his birthday—and I_ still _don't have a present for him—and then a whole, endless, dreary, hideous month in this dreary, hideous castle full of dreary hideous…_

A soft but unmistakable _click_ sounded from his left, and Draco jerked around with a snarl on his lips. "What the hell do you think you're… Oh." He instantly recognized the man standing a few yards away, holding a camera, and some of the tension drained from him. "Weasley."

Bill Weasley offered Draco his easy, charming smile and moved into his patch of shade, dropping to a crouch beside him.

"Do you always greet visitors with bared fangs?"

Draco relaxed a bit more, hazarded a half smile. "I heard the camera."

Bill Weasley looked down at the camera in his hands, surprised, then caught the meaning behind Draco's words and grinned ruefully. "I promise I won't sell it to _The Quibbler_." Settling onto the grass, he said, in his pleasant way, "I brought the camera back with me yesterday, and I've been taking pictures of everyone. As a kind of record, I suppose, in case… Well, in case anyone particularly wants to remember."

"You mean, in case half of us are dead by this time next year."

Bill eyed him with some amusement. "You do have a way of stopping a conversation in its tracks, don't you?"

"I'm out of practice, I suppose." Draco almost added that the rats in the Slytherin dungeon were not the best of company, but he decided that would sound too much like a bid for sympathy, and his skin fairly crawled at the thought. He looked away, discomfited by the eyes watching him so intently.

"Hm." Bill followed the direction of Draco's gaze out toward the lake, and he contemplated it in silence for a moment. Then he said, quietly, "It must be hard, facing all these people without Harry to back you up."

Draco's lips tightened, as the old, festering resentment surged up in him again. It was with an extreme effort that he kept his voice even when he answered, "At least one of us is well out of it."

"He'll be back soon."

The matter-of-fact way he said it did not hide the warmth and sympathy in Bill's voice, and Draco found it suddenly difficult to swallow around the ache in his throat.

"More than a month," he muttered. _Less than a week 'til his birthday, and I don't have a present_. Pain washed through him, a pain that had as much to do with his own sense of failure as it did with loneliness. He, the last of the Malfoys, the spoiled rich brat who had paraded his parents' money before the eyes of his classmates and bought what he couldn't earn, could not find a silver Sickle to buy his boyfriend a gift. He had spent years deriding the Weasleys for their poverty, and now he would have to ask Ron for the money to buy Harry's birthday present. And Bill Weasley—tall, handsome, utterly cool Bill Weasley—was looking at him with pity.

The ache in his throat turned sour, and he suddenly wished Bill, with all his kindness and understanding, at the devil.

Whether Bill picked up on the shift in his mood, or simply decided that they had nothing left to say to each other, he rose to his feet and brushed the dirt from the seat of his well-cut trousers. "See you around, Malfoy."

He turned to leave, his camera swinging from its strap directly in front of Draco's eyes. Draco watched it for a startled moment, as an idea burst like a Wild-Fire Whiz-Bang in his head, then he blurted out, "Weasley!"

Bill halted and turned a look of mild inquiry on him.

"Do you think I could have a copy of that picture?"

"The one of you?"

Draco flushed slightly at the amusement in his tone and nodded. "For Harry."

"Of course. Come to tea on Tuesday, and I'll have it for you then."

"Where?"

"The Gryffindor common room."

"Gryffindor tower? Isn't that where your whole family is staying?" Bill nodded. "You want me to have tea with your mother? Are you _mad?_ "

Bill laughed and started up the hill toward the castle again, calling over his shoulder as he went, "Don't worry. I won't let Mum hurt you!"

Draco yelled helplessly after him, "I am _not_ having tea with your mother!" But Bill paid him no mind, and Draco was left to stew in frustration at the reckless, suicidal stupidity of Weasleys as a breed, and this Weasley in particular.

*** *** ***

When Draco awoke early on Wednesday morning, he did not immediately recall what day it was. He thought only of the headache pounding behind his eyes and the sea of hostile faces he would have to confront if he wanted breakfast. For one craven moment, he considered staying in the dungeon and doing without food. He had the dormitory to himself, since Crabbe had either left early or not come home at all last night, and it was cooler down here than in the main part of the castle. There were worse places to hide from the world than in his own bed.

Then a little voice in the back of his head—the one that soured each morning by reminding him how many days remained of this ghastly summer—whispered, _It's the 30_ _th_ _._ The thirtieth! Draco sprang upright, his headache forgotten, and reached for his watch where it lay on the shelf beside the bed. He popped it open and glanced at the stars circling the ornate, gem-studded face. Sure enough, the voice in his head was right. Tomorrow was Harry's birthday.

He snapped the watch shut, tossed it carelessly onto the shelf, and scrambled out of bed. Kneeling beside his trunk, he shifted aside a stack of neatly-folded shirts to find a shining object lying on the black velvet of his dress robes. It was a small photograph in a silver frame, a picture of Draco seated under a tree by the lake, staring out at the water, his face distant and sad. He lifted the picture out of its hiding place and carried it to the bed, studying it doubtfully.

Not being a man troubled with false modesty, Draco did not worry that the picture wasn't good enough. Harry would think it beautiful, in spite of the snarls in his hair and the sweat stains on his shirt. No, it was not the face itself that worried him, but the emotions so clearly reflected in it, like the mountains in the lake beyond. He had thought himself alone as he sat beside the water and brooded on his loneliness, had not dreamed that another person, let alone a camera, was watching him. And in that moment when the shutter clicked, his painfully private thoughts had lain much too near the surface, unguarded, uncensored, and now caught for anyone to see. It made Draco squirm just to look at it. He wanted to tell the Draco in the picture to pull himself together, comb his hair, and smile nicely for Harry when he opened the package.

Harry would love it. He would recognize this Draco instantly, and his eyes would glow with that strange, frightening, fascinating light meant only for his love. Except that Draco—the real one, not the one trapped inside silver and glass—wouldn’t be there to see it.

Anger, sadness and longing knotted in his throat, closing it up tight. He set the picture firmly aside and pulled writing materials from the shelf beside the bed. The note took him only a minute to compose. It looked pitifully short when it was done, but he could think of nothing else to say that was safe.

 

_Happy Birthday, Harry. The present may not look like much, but I risked my life to get it. Now haul your seventeen-year-old arse back here, before I decide you weren't worth the trouble. —Draco_

 

A tap of his wand turned a sheet of parchment into glittering silver and blue paper. Another tap, and the length of string unearthed from his trunk became tinsel ribbon. As he wrapped the picture carefully, tucking the note inside, Draco reflected that his extra studies in Transfiguration were coming in handy. Not only had he managed fancy trimmings for Harry's gift, but the frame itself was a product of much labor under McGonagall's gimlet eye.

He dressed quickly, with a good deal less care than usual, and snatched up the package as he strode out of the room. The common room was deserted. So were the dungeon passages, and Draco breathed a small, cowardly sigh of relief that he would not have to face any questions about his destination or the brightly-wrapped present he carried. He took the stairs up from the dungeon two at a time and nearly ran across the entry hall, urged to greater speed by the hum of voices emanating from the Great Hall. Breakfast was in full swing, the Hall packed with people who would positively seethe with fury at the idea that he, Draco Malfoy, was sending a birthday present to Harry Potter.

"Oi! Ferret!"

Draco froze with one foot on the lowest step of the main staircase and turned to see Ron Weasley slipping out of the Hall in a decidedly furtive manner.

"Where are you skulking off to?"

Draco did not bother to give an answer, as Ron clearly expected none. The Gryffindor loped across the marble floor, his long legs covering the distance in half the time it had taken Draco, then took the first three steps in a single stride. "I heard about tea with Mum," he remarked, as the two boys climbed the stairs to the first floor.

"The whole castle heard," Draco said dryly.

Ron laughed. "You asked for it, you bloody great prat. You know how my mum feels about you and Harry."

" _I_ didn't ask for it!" Draco protested, stung out of his usual composure. " _I_ didn't want to get within a mile of your mother, much less drink tea with her! It was your idiot brother's idea!"

"Bill?" Ron looked curiously at him. "I thought you liked Bill."

"I did—or tolerated him, anyway, which is the best I can manage with you Weasleys—until he held Harry's birthday present hostage."

Ron's laughing gaze shifted down to the neat package in Draco's hand, then he fumbled in the pocket of his robe and pulled out a large, lumpy, rather bedraggled parcel of his own. "I meant to ask you if your owl could handle this, as well. It would crush Pigwidgeon."

Draco eyed the disreputable object with disdain. "What is that thing?"

"None of your business, Ferret-face. Do I ask what you write in all those love notes you send to Harry?"

Draco grinned wickedly at him. "Go on. Ask."

"Not bloody likely!"

They had reached the end of a long, echoing corridor on the first floor and now started up the winding stair that climbed the West Tower to the owlery, Ron taking the lead.

"It's not easy to buy presents for the Hero Who Has Everything, including a pile of Galleons," Ron said. "I thought about red tights, like the superheroes in Muggle comics wear, but I didn't think you would fancy those much. So you see, Ferret, I do look out for you."

Draco grunted a sour reply and lengthened his stride to keep up with Ron.

"I looked all over Diagon Alley for just the right present and finally raided Fred and George's shop. I figured that Harry could use a laugh, in between rescue missions and battles to the death." Hefting the bulging package, he added, with a grin, "There's enough contraband in here to keep Filch howling for a month or get Harry expelled."

"You would do that to me, wouldn't you? Revenge for years of insults?"

Ron looked startled at that, turning to stare at Draco over his shoulder and slowing his ascent. "Revenge?"

"Harry gets kicked out of school, I'm stuck here with you lot, and one night I disappear quietly from the dungeons, no questions asked, no search for the remains. Very neat."

"Oh, _honestly!_ "

Draco checked in surprise, then broke out in a wide grin. "That sounded frighteningly like Granger."

"Be glad she's having an influence on me. Otherwise, I'd pound you just for being a git." As they both resumed climbing, the owlery now close enough that they could smell it, Ron went on easily, "You can't seriously think that Dumbledore would allow Harry to leave Hogwarts or, if he did, that Harry would go without you."

"Maybe you're right about Dumbledore, but you forget that I can't leave the castle, with or without Harry." He smiled crookedly, his bitterness leaking through the elegant mask he always wore. "I'm a dangerous criminal, remember? A homicidal lunatic who can't be trusted in civilized society."

Ron snorted with laughter. "The wonder is that it took them sixteen years to figure it out. I've known since the first time I laid eyes on your ugly face."

Malfoy simply grunted at this familiar taunt and stepped through the high doorway, onto the floor of the owlery.

He looked up and around, peering through the bars of sunlight and shade for a glimpse of his owl. The early morning sun poured through the eastern window, broken by innumerable perches and hunched, feathered bodies, to paint sharp angles of brightness on the littered floor. The smell of damp straw, dusty feathers, owl droppings and forgotten mouse-corpses was nearly overwhelming, but both boys were so used to it that they barely noticed.

His eagle owl was not visible from his place by the door, so he ventured carefully into the room, whistling a familiar signal. Birds stirred above him, clicking their beaks in annoyance, but one sleek body lifted from its perch and soared down to him. The bird alit on his lifted arm. Draco made a clicking noise very much like the ones the birds had made at his intrusion, and the owl stretched out to touch his lips with its beak.

Ron eyed the oversized bird, with its hard orange eyes and wicked beak, dubiously. "Aren't you afraid it'll rip your face off?"

"She could, if she chose," Draco answered, tickling the owl's breast with one finger, "but we have an understanding."

"She rips your face off, you rip her wings off?"

"That's it. A bond of mutual respect."

Draco carried the owl to the nearest window sill and set her on the rough stone, gouged by countless taloned feet over the centuries. He produced a length of string from his pocket and began to tie the brightly-wrapped present to the owl's outstretched leg. Ron untangled his own bit of string from the snarl of junk in his pocket, keeping a cautious distance from the eagle owl's sharp beak. When Draco had finished with his own package, Ron handed him the much larger one and watched as he fastened it to the bird's other leg.

"What's her name?"

"Xenobia."

Ron gave a snort of laughter.

"Xenobia was a Palmyran Queen," Draco informed him, reprovingly, "a terrifying woman who enslaved whole tribes, conquered Egypt, and beheaded a Roman prefect. I always admired her tremendously."

"Sounds lovely. Was she a witch?"

"No one is quite sure. She's mentioned in both _Wizardry in the Ancient World_ and _Nature's Nobility_ as a probable ancestor of modern wizards, but there are no records from that far back. My father believed the Malfoy's were descended from her—half-Roman children she had while in captivity."

Ron shook his head in mingled admiration and disgust. "You Malfoys are a pack of loonies."

"You are not alone in that opinion." Draco leaned over to click at Xenobia again, earning him another affectionate touch with her beak. "These are for Harry," he murmured. "Find him by midnight, so he has them for his birthday."

The owl uttered an imperious hoot and launched herself from the window ledge. Her great wings—half again as long as those of the contemptible lesser creatures in the owlery—spread and lifted her effortlessly into the crystalline sky. Draco watched her, his face settling unconsciously into lines of sadness. When he could no longer see her dark silhouette against the pristine blue, he turned to find Ron standing quietly behind him.

The Gryffindor looked at him with something that, in another person, might have been sympathy. "Let's get down to the Hall before they clear away breakfast."

Draco shook his head and started for the door without looking at the other boy. "I'll raid the kitchen later. Dobby will find something for me."

Ron didn't argue. He knew as well as Draco did that no one in the Great Hall would be sorry if he chose to avoid a public meal. Except perhaps McGonagall and Dumbledore, both of whom had developed a surprising affection for Malfoy, strongly laced with protectiveness. Chances were that McGonagall would be summoning him to her office by midday to find out why he had not come to breakfast and what he thought he was doing, starving himself in this melodramatic way. Draco almost smiled at the thought, but not quite.

With a silent, weary sigh, he squared his shoulders and stepped through the owlery door to face yet another day as a pariah.

*** *** ***

Draco awoke early the next morning, his head pounding and his eyes gritty with exhaustion. He had lain awake most of the night, staring at the green and silver curtains that walled him in, thinking of Harry and his delight when he received his birthday presents. When he had finally drifted off to sleep, he had tumbled almost at once into a familiar dream.

 

_He lay upon the ground, his body twisted into the grotesque shape of death, filled with cold, piercing pain. All around him lay the blasted remains of his classmates, his teachers, his friends… except that Draco Malfoy had no friends, and even the dead seemed to draw away from him in revulsion. He was alone in the darkness._

_Footsteps paced slowly, calmly through the devastation, drawing ever closer. A robe brushed his hand, and Draco looked up at the figure towering above him._

_Unruly hair whipping in the wind. Glasses catching the fitful moonlight. A Gryffindor badge showing gold and scarlet upon the breast of a black robe._

_The figure scanned the horizon ceaselessly, turning this way and that, wand raised, not deigning to notice the scattered bodies at his feet. Draco tried to reach for him, to catch the hem of the robe that still touched his fingers, but he could not move. His throat worked. Blood spilled, hot and bitter, from his mouth. The dark shape above him moved, drawing away, and a panic more terrible than any pain flooded him._

_"Harry!" he cried, his voice an ugly croak in the darkness. "Harry, I'm here!"_

_The figure paused and turned. A familiar face gazed at him from beneath the messy black hair, from behind the crooked round glasses. His father's face._

_"Father!" he gasped, as much in pleading as in fear._

_No hint of recognition touched the man's features. No flicker of emotion showed in his eyes. He gazed implacably at the dying boy at his feet. Draco met his empty eyes and screamed, flinging the last of his strength into the futile cry. His father turned and strode away, leaving Draco once more alone with the dead._

_He lay in the ever-thickening darkness, listening to his own strangled weeping, while the tears froze on his cheeks and frosted his lashes, knowing that it would never end._

 

When he awoke, numb with mingled cold and fear, he was grateful for the coming of morning, grateful for the stuffy warmth of his bed behind the green and silver curtains and for the heat of the day penetrating even to this isolated dungeon. It took him some minutes to ascertain that his blood was circulating properly and his limbs were functional—that he was not slowly freezing to death upon some blasted plain—then he crawled from beneath the blankets and dragged himself off to the Prefects bathroom for a long soak.

Vincent Crabbe was seated at the Slytherin table when he entered the Great Hall, and he offered Draco a nod of greeting. Draco settled onto the bench beside him, experiencing another surge of gratitude for the absence of Crabbe's disapproving girlfriend—a Hufflepuff named Maude who always looked at Draco as if he smelled bad—and for the fragrant heat of the coffee before him. He drank down one large cup without taking time to taste it, then poured another to nurse through his breakfast. He was not particularly hungry, but he needed hot food in his stomach.

He was halfway through a plate of eggs and fried potatoes when Ron Weasley dropped into the seat opposite him. Crabbe eyed the intruder from behind his most impenetrable Idiot Face, then nodded.

“Crabbe," Weasley said by way of greeting. He groaned and snatched a piece of toast from the nearest rack, stuffing it ravenously into his mouth, as if that one morsel of bread was all that stood between him and starvation. Then he turned his attention to Malfoy and said, through a spray of crumbs, "Up for some Quidditch practice this morning, before it gets too hot?"

Draco shrugged coolly. "Maybe."

"Well, don't die of excitement!"

Draco knew he had offended Ron—the closest thing to a friend he had these days—and he was sorry for it, but he could not bring himself to plan out a day of Quidditch and Transfiguration exercises. Not if there was even the slightest chance that Harry was on his way back to Hogwarts today. It was, after all, Harry's seventeenth birthday and the day he became a legal adult. Master of his own fate.

He had just opened his mouth to explain his dismissive attitude, when a large, feathered body came swooping over his head and landed with a thunk on the table. Draco grabbed his coffee cup before Xenobia's wing swept it into his lap. The owl stood across his breakfast plate from him, holding out her leg for his inspection.

Ron spotted the two scrolls tied to the bird's leg, one of which bore his own name, and gave a whoop of delight. "That's one fast owl you've got, Ferret! She must have flown all night without a rest!"

Xenobia bestowed an approving glance upon him and graciously allowed him to take the letters. She then accepted a piece of bacon rind offered by the Gryffindor and proceeded to rip it into bite-sized pieces with her cruel beak. Draco took the scroll Ron held out to him and stared at his name written across it in Harry's familiar scrawl.

Without a word, Draco climbed over the bench and started for the door, fighting to keep his face impassive and his eagerness in check. Every eye in the room was fixed avidly on him as he stepped through the doors into the relative privacy of the entry hall, and a babble of voices rose behind him, almost washing him from the room on the tide of noise. He turned sharply to one side, to put solid stone at his back, and broke the seal on the scroll.

It was a single piece of parchment that bore only a few lines of script.

 

_Dra_ _co,_

_Thank you. It's beautiful, and I love it. Love you. I can't come home or write to you for a while. Owls aren't safe. But Dumbledore promised he'd tell you where I am when he gets back to Hogwarts._

_Please don't be angry._

_Love, Harry_

 

"Malfoy?"

Draco recognized Ron's voice calling him from inside the Hall, and his insides turned over painfully. Pushing himself away from the support of the wall, he started across the entry hall toward the dungeon stairs. Weasley came out of the doors behind him, saying something about Quidditch, but Draco ignored him. He was nearly running when he reached the stairs and plunged down into the sheltering darkness. The dungeons swallowed him up, and he was back where he belonged. Safe. Alone.

 

*** *** ***

**_September 1_ ** **_st_ **

It was full dark and bitterly cold when the train pulled into Hogsmeade station. Harry was up out of his seat and pushing into the corridor before the carriage had shuddered to a halt. He did not wait for his friends, scrambling to collect their belongings from the corners of the compartment, or spare a glance for the students already queueing up in the corridor. All his attention was focused on getting out of this train, up to the castle, and home.

Home. He had once thought of Hogwarts as his true home, but now he knew better. It was not stone walls or talking portraits that held his heart. It was a slender, cold, bright-haired boy whose beauty left him breathless and whose passion sent him reeling. Draco Malfoy was all the home he needed, all the happiness his soul craved. Draco, who never spoke the word _love_ or admitted to any feeling stronger than a desire to beat Harry at Quidditch, but whose love for Harry was so enormous and powerful that it consumed them both, filling Harry with silver-gilt fire and calling up his own wizarding power in a golden flood that he could not contain.

Impatient for his first glimpse of home, Harry peered out the window and saw, not castle lights shining from across the lake as he’d hoped, but a veritable sea of pointed hats, lanterns and lit wands massed on the station platform. They stood in clumps and milled about, like potion simmering in a cauldron.

“Blimey!” he blurted out. “It looks like half the wizards in Britain are out there!”

Hermione, who stood close behind him in the queue, cupped a hand against the glass to get a look at the scene outside. “I suppose all the families that spent the summer in the castle are riding back to London tonight. They can’t stay in the castle now that the term’s started, can they?”

Harry grunted a wordless assent, his eyes now searching the crowd for a telltale ginger head among the throng. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had spent the summer at Hogwarts with their under-aged children, which meant that they should be out there, right now, waiting to board the train. Harry had missed Ron and Ginny, especially on the long ride up from London—the Hogwarts Express felt empty and unfriendly without them—but he simply could not face Mrs. Weasley’s hurt and anger tonight. Not with Draco in reach, at last.

He could not see any sign of them on the platform, and he was just daring to hope that he’d get clean away, when he stepped off the train and heard Ron hail him.

“Harry! Over here!”

Harry turned to see his best friend, who now stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd, waving to him. Hermione climbed down from the train and joined him as Ron pushed his way up to them.

"Good to see you, mate,” he said with a grin. “Mum sent me to fetch you. She won't leave 'til she's seen with her own eyes that you're here in one piece. Come on."

He tugged on Harry's sleeve and started back into the sea of dark-robed bodies.

"What are you doing here, Ron?" Hermione asked, as they dodged a group of somber adults with their heads together. "I thought you were supposed to stay on the grounds, where it's safe."

"Mum insisted, and Dumbledore said we could see our families off. Ginny and I didn't ask; we just got in the carriage quick, before he changed his mind."

Harry started at this and shot an eager look around him, hunting for a gleam of torchlight on pale hair.

"Forget it, Harry,” Ron said, dryly, “he’s not here.”

"If Dumbledore thought it was safe for you lot to come…" Harry began, but Ron cut him off with a humorless chuckle.

"He hasn't let the Ferret stick so much as a bleach-blond whisker through the wards all summer."

Harry bit off his response when he saw the rest of the Weasley clan bearing down on them. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley surged forward to meet him, Bill and Ginny right behind them, and Harry was engulfed in loud, affectionate greetings that left no room for embarrassment. Mrs. Weasley hugged him, while Mr. Weasley shook his hand and Bill grinned at him over his parents' heads.

The greetings done, Mrs. Weasley looked searchingly up into Harry's face and said, "You're so thin, Harry dear. Don't those Muggles feed you?"

Harry grinned. "Not much. But Sirius has been fattening me up for the last month."

Mrs. Weasley shook her head in dismay. "Dumbledore should have kept you here, where Arthur and I could look after you."

"But Mum," Ron interjected artlessly, "didn't you say you were glad he was well away from Malfoy?"

Mrs. Weasley's cheeks flamed a red so bright that it was visible in the lamplight, and Hermione uttered a muffled squeak of outrage. Harry wished that he could duck into the crowd to avoid the eyes of the entire Weasley family now turned on him. Leave it to his best mate to throw Draco's name into the conversation, just to see how much trouble he could cause.

"I'm sure Dumbledore had his reasons for keeping Harry away from the castle," Bill said, in a soothing way.

"Yeah, to keep Mum from murdering Draco. One look at Harry making cow's eyes at a Slytherin would’ve sent her over the…"

"Ron, _will_ you shut up?" Hermione hissed.

"Don't bother, Hermione," Ginny said, rolling her eyes at her brother. "Tormenting Mum is his new hobby. The only person who can stop him is Malfoy, because he isn't afraid to hex the stupid git."

Harry turned an appalled look on Ginny, as the truly terrifying vision of Draco hexing Ron in front of his apoplectic mother took shape before his eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. Ron has been at it all summer."

"Don't listen to her," Ron interjected. "He only hexed me once. No… twice. And they were little ones."

"The second time, I had to get Flitwick to unglue you, or you would’ve been stuck there all night."

" _Unglue?_ "

Bill laughed aloud, earning him a furious glare from his mother. "I'll wager Malfoy never learned that spell in Charms class. It was brilliant."

“I’m surprised at you, Bill," Mrs. Weasley said, a trifle shrilly, "encouraging the use of Dark Magic on your own brother!"

"Dark Magic? Don't you think that's going a bit far? All he did was glue Ron to a wall, which was no more than he deserved."

Mrs. Weasley flushed still more brightly and pressed her lips together.

"Give it up, Mum," Ron advised, grinning. "You're wasting your breath, and we have to get up to the castle. You wouldn't want Harry to miss another meal, would you? Poor, starving Harry?"

Still wearing her rigid, angry face, Mrs. Weasley pulled her son's head down by one ear and planted a kiss on his cheek. She bid a somewhat warmer farewell to Hermione and Ginny, while Mr. Weasley and Bill shook hands all around, then she turned on Harry. Her expression melted into doting fondness, and her eyes shone brightly in the torchlight. Taking Harry's face between her hands, she kissed him soundly.

"You take care of yourself, Harry."

"I'll be all right, Mrs. Weasley."

"Well, you'll be safe in Hogwarts, at least. That's my comfort. Oh, Harry!" She pulled him into another enveloping hug. "All I want is for you to be safe and happy. You believe that, don't you, my dear?”

"Yes." He looked down into her lined, tired, kindly face and felt a wave of affection rise in him, blurring the memory of all the bitter words spoken between them and allowing him to smile at her with genuine warmth. "I'm doing my best to make that happen. For all of us."

She gazed intently up at him for a long moment, still holding his face between her hands, then she nodded and stepped back. Harry gave them all a final, distracted smile and headed off into the crowd with his friends.

They reached the line of coaches, where they found Luna Lovegood gazing blandly at the thestrals, oblivious to Neville’s attempts to get her moving. Ginny joined him and together they swept Luna into one coach, while Ron, Hermione and Harry climbed into another. Harry settled into the corner of one seat and turned his eyes to the window, trying not to see the besotted looks Ron and Hermione kept giving each other. He knew exactly how they felt and wished he could give them the privacy they clearly craved. His own mouth was dry with excitement, his stomach doing painful somersaults. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he closed it tightly around the framed picture that lay there, holding onto it like a lifeline.

So close. He was _so close!_ Only minutes, now, and he would be at the castle doors… on the steps… inside the Great Hall, seated at the Gryffindor table, staring across the room at one white-blond head among the mass of hostile Slytherins…

“Relax, Harry," Ron said unexpectedly, jolting him out of his state of seething anticipation and bringing his head around with a snap. "We're almost there."

Trying very hard to smile, Harry asked, "How was it this summer, really, with Draco and your mum in the same castle?"

"Not so bad, until Bill took a fancy to Malfoy and invited him to tea." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "I've never heard her scream so loud, even when she sent me that Howler after the flying car incident. Poor Bill."

"Poor _Bill?_ " Harry demanded, outraged. "What about Draco?"

"Oh, she didn't start in ’til he'd left. But he probably heard her shouting all the way down in the dungeon."

For some reason he did not care to examine, the notion of Bill inviting Draco to tea irritated Harry, and he couldn't find it in him to feel sorry for any abuse Mrs. Weasley had meted out to him. "Well, it serves Bill right," he grumbled, knowing he was being unfair even as he said it. "It was a bloody stupid thing to do."

Both Ron and Hermione looked startled by his reaction, and Hermione said, "I'm sure he was only trying to smooth things over with Mrs. Weasley."

"He should’ve kept his nose out of it.”

The light dawned on Ron, and he broke out in a huge grin. "You're jealous of Bill!"

"I am not!" Harry protested, even as his angry flush betrayed him.

"You think he fancies your ferret."

"Draco is not _my_ _ferret_ , and I know perfectly well that…” But Ron was laughing so hard that Harry saw no point in pressing his point and resorted to glaring daggers at him.

Hermione looked from one to the other, obviously puzzled. "I thought Bill was engaged to Fleur Delacour.”

"He is." Ron sucked in a steadying breath and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Of course, Malfoy looks a lot like Fleur, so maybe he can’t tell the difference…"

"That isn't funny," Hermione informed him, severely. "If you've been making jokes like that all summer, it's no wonder Malfoy glued you to a wall."

Luckily for Harry's frayed temper, at that very moment the coach ground to a halt at the foot of the castle steps. He climbed out quickly, not waiting for the others, and joined the queue of students headed up toward the enormous front doors. Those nearest him turned to stare, as people always did these days, and a few waved or called greetings, but Harry had little attention to spare for either the friends or the gawkers. The warm glow of candlelight spilling into the night beckoned him, urging him to hurry.

Up the stone steps to the oaken doors he went, barely containing his impatience at the slowness with which the black-robed figures moved. He did not allow himself to search the crowd for a telltale glint of silver-gilt, sure that Draco was already seated at the Slytherin table where Harry could not get near him. Pride and eagerness kept his eyes glued to the head of the line, where it passed through the doors to the Great Hall and broke into a flood of hurrying, laughing children.

So intent was he upon reaching the Hall that he did not notice the tiny ball of feathers swooping above his head until it uttered a shrill cry to get his attention. He glanced up, startled, to see Pigwidgeon hovering just out of reach, a scrap of parchment in his claws. When he saw Harry's upturned face, he chittered wildly and let the fragment of paper fall. Harry instinctively snatched it out of the air, even as the miniature owl gave another piercing cry and broke into a series of acrobatic stunts that had the entire entrance hall full of students laughing.

"Oi! Pig!" Ron bellowed, “Get out of it, you little, feathered git!"

Ignoring Ron, Pigwidgeon, and the chaos they were causing, Harry turned the piece of parchment into the light of the nearest torch and read, _I'm stargazing. Care to join me? —D_

Harry's heart slammed painfully against his ribs, and he nearly laughed aloud as he stuffed the note into his pocket and turned at once for the main stairway.

Behind him, Hermione called, "Harry, where are you going? You're going to miss the Sorting!"

"I'll meet the new Gryffindors later," he said, tossing her a smile with no hint of apology in it.

"But the feast…"

"Oh, leave it, Hermione. I don't think he's hungry," Ron chided.

"But…"

Harry just waved to them both, as he reached the stairs and bounded up them two at a time. Ernie MacMillan shouted something after him that he did not hear, and Nearly-Headless Nick asked where he was off to in such a hurry. A group of Ravenclaws, about to enter the Great Hall, hung back to watch his precipitous departure and smirked knowingly at each other. Harry pretended not to notice any of it, but he could not quite smother a sigh of relief as he turned a corner and moved out of sight of the students in the entry hall.

With a low, breathless laugh, he took off running down the deserted corridor, headed for the nearest hidden stair and the North Tower. Five minutes later, panting and flushed with triumph, he burst into the small, bare, circular room at the top of the tower and saw the trapdoor open above him. A square of perfect, velvet-black sky, ablaze with stars, was framed in the opening. Stars of adamant.

Draco's stars.

Harry bounded up the ladder and stuck his head through the open trap. His gaze swept the rooftop, lighting at once upon the shadowy figure perched on the crenellated parapet.A euphoric grin spread over his face, and he leapt up the last two rungs, onto the roof.

"Draco!"

At the sound of Harry's voice, Draco turned his head, his pale hair glinting in the moonlight, and unfolded himself from his seat. He moved like a living shadow, a piece of the magical night, frosted with cold brilliance, staggeringly beautiful. Harry covered the distance in three long strides, reaching Draco just as he came to his feet in the middle of a large rug, a puddle of Slytherin green spread over the harsh stone.

They halted less than a handspan apart, not touching but so close that Harry fancied he could hear Draco’s heart beating over the frantic racing of his own pulse.

“Draco.” Harry took a moment to absorb the physical impact of the other boy’s beauty, so devastating from such close range, then he reached up to catch a strand of hair that was blowing into his eyes. “I got your note.”

“You have a true gift for stating the obvious.”

His voice was dry and taunting, his words sardonic, but Harry was not fooled for an instant. A blazing smile broke over his face. He opened his hand to cradle Draco’s cheek, his thumb brushing the ragged, silver-white scar that marked it, and Draco’s lashes fell as he unconsciously warmed under Harry’s caress.

When Harry spoke again, his tone had softened into a murmur. “Still mad, huh?”

“Furious.”

“Yeah.” He bent his head—less than before; Draco had grown a few inches over the summer—and touched his mouth to the other boy’s. “So… are you going to hex me?”

“That would be my second choice,” Draco breathed, his eyes narrowed to gleaming, grey slits and his head tilted back against the support of Harry’s hand.

Harry smiled his triumph as he drew his Slytherin love into his arms and up to meet his lips. The kiss burned through them both like a curse. Power blossomed in the darkness, flowing between and around them, forming a net of intertwined gold and silver strands that wrapped them in a cocoon of light and heat. Their outlines blurred as their bodies seemed to melt together under the influence of their combined power. For one blissful second, Harry could swear that his feet left the ground, freed from stone and earth and the very laws of nature by the sheer magnitude of their shared happiness.

By the time Harry broke the long kiss, allowing the web of power to fade, the two boys lay tangled together on the Slytherin green blanket, their clothing banished and the shimmering bubble of a warming spell enclosing them. He lifted his head to gaze down at the boy pinned beneath him, and his heart swelled in his chest, choking off his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked softly.

Harry just shook his head, unable to speak in that aching, ecstatic moment. Then adamant fingers touched his cheek, lightly, hesitantly, and the voice he loved best in all the world came in a whisper from the darkness.

“I’ve missed you, Harry. I’m not mad you stayed away. Not really. It was just so hard being here alone.”

The lump in his throat burst, flooding Harry with love and a longing so intense it felt more like pain. He wanted to weep for joy, but that seemed foolish, and he knew it would worry Draco. So instead, he turned to press his lips into the other boy’s crystalline palm and whispered, “I know. You didn’t fool me for a minute.”

Draco laughed, and Harry could have sworn he heard an edge of tears in the sound, but he knew better than to call him on it. “Why did you stop?”

“I just needed to look at you.”

“Prat.” The word was a caress, and it brought a sob of happiness up in Harry’s throat. “Have you done enough looking?”

“For now.” With that, he sank down into another flaming kiss, and this time he didn’t stop.

* * *

Harry lay against a heap of pillows, wrapped in green blankets, with a familiar body resting against his and sleek limbs tangled with his own. The position of the stars blazing overhead told him that it was late, but he didn't care. He had no intention of leaving the tower until the sun rose, even if it meant coming in late and unwashed to breakfast on his first day back at Hogwarts. Nothing short of a Death Eater attack would separate him from Draco before morning. He also felt no desire to sleep, not wanting to miss a single second of this night.

The head resting on his shoulder stirred, and the arm lying across his waist tightened its hold. A moment later, Draco lifted his head and propped his chin on Harry's chest, gazing sleepily at him through a tangle of loose hair.

"Feel better?" Harry asked.

"Mm. How long was I asleep?"

“An hour or so."

With another throaty, wordless noise of contentment, Draco snuggled his head into Harry's shoulder again and closed his eyes.

"You know, I’ll get complexes if you keep falling asleep like that. It doesn't say much for my skill as a lover."

"You're wearing me out."

Harry chuckled. "Have some supper. It’ll revive you."

Draco cracked open an eye to glance at the baskets of food provided by Dobby as a substitute for the Sorting Feast—cold meat pie, bread, cheese, treacle tart and pumpkin juice. Harry had already eaten most of it, leaving enough to sustain Draco only because he didn't want his partner dying of starvation at an awkward moment. Uttering a dismissive grunt, Draco closed his eyes again.

"Come on, Draco, don't fall asleep on me."

"I'm tired. I haven't been sleeping properly since you left," Draco murmured.

Harry digested that for a moment, then asked softly, "Bad dreams?"

"Sometimes."

Harry fingered his hair lightly, lovingly. "I dreamed of you every night. Wonderful dreams. But then I'd wake up, and you weren't there."

"I dreamed of dying alone in the cold."

Harry felt a pang of sorrow and anger go through him, sharpening his voice. "That isn't going to happen."

"So you've mastered Divination now, have you?"

"I don't need to see the future. I know that you won't be cold or alone if I'm with you, and I will be, no matter what."

"Prat," Draco said sleepily.

"I'm seventeen, an adult,” Harry insisted, trying to project his own certainty into the other boy. "I make my own choices, and I choose to stay with you."

"Completely ignoring such minor obstacles as the war and the Wizengamot."

"What does the Wizengamot have to do with us?"

"They declared me insane and handed me over to Dumbledore, remember?"

"But that was only for your protection!"

Draco lifted his head to fix scornful eyes on Harry's face, and he gave a short, sour laugh. "You can't honestly believe that Cornelius Fudge wants to protect me."

"Not Fudge, but the rest of them…"

"As long as he claims I'm still dangerous, Fudge can keep me shut up in Hogwarts and spread whatever stories he likes about me and my family. There is no way he's going to relinquish that kind of power over me or set me free to pollute the rest of the wizarding world. He'll keep the Wizengamot in line."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Draco cut him off. Dropping his head to rest on Harry's shoulder once more, he murmured, "There's no place for me to go, anyway."

Harry held Draco in silence, while an overwhelming protectiveness filled him, bringing a painful lump to his throat. He had thought that their private troubles were over, now that they were together and of an age to decide their own fates. The last thing he had expected was to find Draco still trapped in the nightmare of his father's death and his own brush with madness. How could he free Draco from Fudge's control without sparking a war of his own, fought against wizards who were supposed to be his friends and allies? He could not, at least not yet, which left him with only one choice.

"I'll stay here with you," he blurted out suddenly. "If you can't leave, then neither will I."

"That's hardly practical. There's a war on, or had you forgotten? And you're the Boy Who Lived, the bloody savior of the wizarding world."

"Not anymore. Let Fudge fight the war. If he's so keen to hang onto his power and position, let him take care of Voldemort!"

"And when Voldemort brings the war to you?"

Harry shuddered and tightened his hold on Draco, as if he could ward off the threat of suffering and death with his gangly, skinny, teenaged arms. "Then we'll fight him together, and whatever happens, we won't have to face it alone."

Draco said nothing to this for a long, quiet minute. He traced one glittering, crystalline finger down Harry's breastbone and along the curve of a rib. Harry squirmed and twitched, muffling a snort of laughter, but Draco did not seem to notice. His face remained distant, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on his own hand, as he laid it flat on Harry's chest.

"Will we die together, then?" he asked softly.

"Not die. Fight."

"The Dark Lord always wins."

"Hey, look who you're talking to! I'm living proof that he doesn't _always_ win." When Draco vouchsafed no answer to this, Harry caught his adamant hand and lifted it to press his lips to the palm. "I don't plan to die anytime soon, and since I can't possibly live without my gorgeous Slytherin puffer-fish…"

"You're delusional." Draco's voice was oddly soft, and Harry could have sworn that the inhuman hand clasped in his was warm. He turned it slightly, watching the starlight break into colors across its surface, fascinated by its beauty. Draco lifted his head to stare at Harry's face every bit as intently as Harry was staring at his hand, and for a fleeting moment, his winter eyes were completely unguarded. "Harry?"

"Mm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Admiring your hand. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is." He frowned suddenly, his thumb shifting to stroke the smooth, flat stumps of the two outer fingers. "Why didn't Dumbledore fix it? Can't he replace these fingers?"

"He says he can, though the new fingers may not work as well as the rest. Something about the original crystalline structure and how my wizarding power uses it. I didn't listen very carefully."

That drew Harry's attention away from the hand and down to Draco's face. His frown darkened with concern. "Why not? Don't you want it whole?"

Draco shook his head. "I keep it this way as a reminder of what I did."

"I should think that's the last thing you need!" Harry protested.

"I don't want to forget anything, ever again." He drew his hand from Harry's clasp and spread it flat on the other boy's bare chest once more. Gazing down at the glittering limb, with it's cruelly truncated fingers, he added, very quietly, "When I look at it, I remember what I did to my father and why. I remember that love is a weapon. It maims. It kills. It shatters even the strongest man or the most powerful magical object. I'll never forget." He closed his hand into a fist, clenching it tightly over Harry's heart. "Never."

Harry spoke in a low, rough whisper, barely able to force his voice past the sudden constriction in his throat. "Love saved me from Voldemort. Twice. And it saved you from the dementors at the Giants’ Dance."

"My own madness saved me. I was too far gone to realize I didn't stand a chance."

Harry abandoned the attempt to persuade him and settled for gathering his body close and holding him tightly in his arms, saying affectionately, "Stupid bloody Slytherin." Draco gave a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh and tucked his head beneath Harry's chin, while his arm slipped around his waist.

They lay together through the long, quiet, sheltered minutes, drawing warmth and comfort from each other. Draco's breathing gradually slowed into sleep, and Harry let him rest, unwilling to disturb him when he lay so trustingly in his arms. Finally, he closed his own eyes.

 

_Harry stood very close to his beloved, leaning over him, cradling his upturned face in worshipful hands. The night wind lifted his cloak and blew Draco's hair about his face in a silver-blond net. With gentle fingers, Harry brushed the hair away from that perfect, porcelain brow, leaving a smear of glistening filth upon it._

_He bent to bring his mouth to Draco's ear, whispering, "I love you." The words came out as a foul, rattling hiss._

_Draco sighed luxuriously and reached up to loop his arms around Harry's neck. "Kiss me," he murmured, eyes shining through the clinging shadows that Harry exhaled with every breath._

_Hunger churned, hot and fierce, in Harry's belly. A longing more powerful and terrible than any human lust filled him, drove him to take the offered mouth with his own, to claim the soul of his beloved._

_He stooped swiftly, bringing his mouth nearly to Draco's, and heard him sigh in the last instant before they touched, "I love you, Harry.”_

 

"No!" Harry lurched upright, spilling Draco's sleeping body to the ground, and stared wildly about him.

"Harry?" Draco pushed himself up on his elbows and blinked sleepily at the other boy. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Harry swallowed the sickness that clogged his throat and collapsed back on the pillow, flinging an arm across his face to hide it from Draco's curious gaze. "I was dreaming, I guess."

Draco curled up against Harry once more, settling his head in its usual spot on the taller boy's shoulder, and said, yawning, "I thought you dreamed about _me_ every night." When Harry said nothing, he asked, a touch of concern in his voice, "Was it about me?"

"It doesn't matter. It was just a stupid dream." Looping his free arm about Draco's shoulders, he pulled him closer and murmured, "Go back to sleep."

Malfoy smothered another wide yawn. "I thought you wanted me to stay awake… keep you company."

"I like watching you sleep, too."

Draco did not bother to point out that Harry had his eyes covered and was not watching anything. He was much more interested in sleep than in conversation, and he had barely closed his eyes when his breathing slowed and his body went slack in Harry's arms. Harry could not sleep. He could still feel the churning horror of the dream in his stomach—the longing, the foul, inhuman hunger—and he could not risk plunging into that terrible place again. So he lay very still, staring up at the stars as they paled and winked out, listening to the soft, peaceful sounds of Draco's dreamless sleep and waiting for morning.

**_To be continued…_ **


	2. Shared Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco settle into life at Hogwarts.

****_Of course it's raining_ , Harry thought sourly, as he watched the cold, grey sheets of water pounding against the tower window. _It would have to be today._ Since the beginning of term the weather had been blustery and grey, a storm always threatening but never hitting, until today. When he absolutely had to spend the evening out on the Quidditch pitch.

With a sigh, he shouldered his Firebolt and turned resolutely away from daunting view. Storm or no storm, he had to hold practice this evening or give up any hope of Gryffindor winning their first game, but the very last place he wanted to be was out in that rain. Hermione didn't help his mood any when he hurried past her in the common room and she sniffed her very loud disapproval. Since the end of the first day of classes, she had been nagging him ceaselessly about his homework, and as far as she was concerned, this storm was a heaven-sent excuse to cancel practice and get down to some _real_ work. For once, Harry almost agreed with her, which only made him glare more fiercely at her on his way out of the portrait hole.

An hour later, an exceedingly wet, tired and dejected Harry Potter slipped through the great oaken doors and into the entrance hall of the castle. He set down his broomstick to push the door closed, then pulled out his wand and banished the water dripping from his cloak with a small drought charm. His gaze fell on the line of puddles and muddy footprints left on the polished marble floor by his teammates, and he sighed in exasperation. Filch would take one look at this mess and fly into a towering rage, complete with popping veins, trembling jowls and spraying spittle. After a moment’s thought, he pointed his wand at his feet and muttered, " _Scourgify_." The mud on his trainers vanished.

Tucking his wand back into his pocket and collecting his broom, Harry crossed the hall toward the stairs that led down to the dungeons. He needed a bath and a change of clothes, but he had an errand to run first, and he figured he had better do it while he was still wet and miserable, or he would weaken in his resolve.

Harry and Draco had spent at least some part of each night together since Harry's return to the castle, wrapped in Slytherin green blankets and Harry's best warming spell atop the North Tower. Alone in their aerie, they could forget the simmering hostility of their classmates and the growing pile of unfinished homework awaiting them in their common rooms, they could ignore the frigid night that closed in about them and forget the threats to life, limb and sanity that seemed to lurk in every patch of darkness. They were safe, warm and happy—a very rare and precious thing for Harry.

Both of them knew that this pleasant pattern could not go on indefinitely. If nothing else, they must find time to study or risk flunking their N.E.W.T.s, as Hermione so frequently reminded Harry. But so far, neither had been able to resist temptation and stay in his own dormitory for the night. Harry was about to change that. He could not face the cold and wet of the tower roof, even from inside a warming spell, and he could not face Professor Snape in Potions tomorrow without his essay written. That meant telling Malfoy that he couldn't meet him on the roof later. And _that_ meant a foray into the dungeons.

He went down the stairs quickly, feeling the familiar chill of the dungeons close in around him and set his teeth to chattering. Sullen torches lit the passages, and little furry bodies scurried out of sight as he approached. As he rounded one corner, he thought he saw a flash of orange fur and the swish of a bottlebrush tail disappearing into the shadows—Crookshanks on the hunt. No doubt Hermione would be getting some nasty looks from the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins in the morning, when the well-chewed remains of their pets were found.

Stopping at a stretch of blank stone wall that was, to all outward appearances, exactly like every other stretch of blank stone wall, Harry called firmly, " _Acromantula_."

A grinding noise came from inside the wall, then a door slid ponderously open to reveal the Slytherin common room. Two dozen heads swung in Harry's direction, and two dozen mouths dropped open in surprise. Harry did not step into the dark, low-ceilinged room, but stood just outside the door and said, calmly, "I want to speak to Malfoy."

A very young Slytherin, probably no older that twelve, bounded to his feet and headed for one of the back passages that led to the dormitories, while a much larger boy approached the doorway. Harry recognized Malcolm Baddock, a Fourth Year and one of the few older Slytherins who had not left the castle during the siege last winter. Baddock was not a bad sort, as Slytherins went, but he had no fondness for Harry and looked none too pleased to find him at the door.

"I know you think you own the ruddy world, Potter, but this is our common room, our password."

Harry shrugged. "You don't have a knocker, and I didn't want to break my hand pounding on the wall."

Before Baddock could find an answer to this, Draco appeared at the far side of the common room, bringing a tense silence with him. Every eye followed him as he crossed the room and stepped through the door.

Baddock threw Harry a sullen look. "Next time you want to speak to Malfoy, send him an owl." The door shut with a resounding thud, leaving Harry and Draco alone in the dank, cold, dimly-lit passageway.

Draco propped a shoulder on the wall and fixed Harry with an enigmatic gaze, one eyebrow lifted. "Are you just dying to get yourself hexed?"

"I needed to see you."

Both eyebrows went up. "It couldn't wait 'til later?"

Harry sighed. "That's the problem. There isn't going to be a later."

Draco went very still for a moment, absorbing the blow of Harry's words, then shrugged and pushed himself away from the wall. "See you around," he said coolly, as he turned toward the concealed door.

"Wait, Draco." Harry's hand shot out to catch his arm. "I'm sorry, all right? I'm cold and wet and tired, and no amount of magic is going to make that roof comfortable tonight. I need a nice, warm bed and a fire."

Malfoy just stared at him, saying nothing, but Harry read the message in his eyes. _We can share that nice, warm bed_. Harry knew a momentary urge to pound his head against the wall with frustration, as his resistance slipped a vital notch.

"I can't show up in Potions tomorrow without my homework done!" he pleaded.

A gleam of amusement showed in Draco's eyes, signaling that he knew he'd won. "As bad as you are at Potions, it won't make a difference. You'll fail, either way. On the other hand," he murmured, his face all innocence, "if I were to help you with the essay…"

Harry brightened at that. "Would you? Hermione swore she wouldn’t look over my homework until I agreed to her study schedule, and without her help, I'm sunk!"

Draco made a disgusted noise. "You don't need Granger. She has no more gift for potions than you do; she's just better at following directions."

"If you look at my Potions work, I'll help you with Transfiguration," Harry said eagerly, ignoring his dig at Hermione.

"Actually, I'm quite good at Transfiguration. McGonagall worked the kinks out of my technique this summer."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts, then."

"I don't need a tutor, Potter," Draco said, stepping in close to Harry and shooting him a suggestive look from beneath his lowered lashes.

Harry laughed and slipped both arms around his waist. "You keep that up, and neither one of us will finish his homework."

"Ugh! You're soaking wet!" Draco pushed sharply away from him, then he wiped at the damp spots on his shirt.

"I told you so," Harry pointed out reasonably. "Now, how about that study session? Where shall we meet?"

"It can't be in either of our common rooms, so that leaves the library."

"And try to work with Madam Pince glaring at us like a dyspeptic vulture? No thank you."

"Oh, I see. This needs to be a _private_ study session."

"Stop looking at me like that! And stay away from me, or you'll end up as wet and muddy as I am," Harry scolded, fending off Draco with one hand. "I have a better place to study, where no one will disturb us."

"The Astronomy Tower? Greenhouse Three? Hagrid's vegetable patch?"

"The vegetable patch! Who snogs in the vegetable patch? Never mind," he added hurriedly, when Draco opened his mouth to answer, "we don't have time for a list. Give me half an hour to get cleaned up and collect my books, and meet me on the Seventh Floor, at the Room of Requirement."

Draco looked uneasily at him. "You want to study in there?"

"Why not?"

"Because I spent several weeks locked up in that room, and it's not something I care to relive."

"You won't be locked in," Harry assured him, once more pulling him close in spite of his wet clothing, "and it will look completely different."

"Well…" A pathetically hopeful look from Harry made him sigh and mutter, "Oh, all right. But if I catch so much as a whiff of the hospital wing, you're troll food, Potter."

Harry laughed delightedly and planted a kiss on Malfoy's frowning lips. "Half an hour. Don't be late!" Stepping back, he shouldered his broom and ran an appraising eye over the other boy. "And you'd better change that damp shirt, or you'll catch cold."

"If I do, I'll be sure to share it with you."

"Ah, but Potters can carry off a red, dripping nose. Malfoys definitely cannot."

With that, Harry strode jauntily away, headed for the Seventh floor and a hot shower.

He reached the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy twenty minutes later to find the corridor empty and no sign of Draco or the Room of Requirement. That suited him just fine, as he had time to prepare the room without interference from a touchy and unpredictable study partner. He closed his eyes, concentrated on his need for a warm, comfortable, inviting place to study, and walked three times past the bare expanse of wall. When he opened his eyes, he saw that a familiar ornate, wooden door had appeared in it.

Pulling the door open, Harry peered in. He saw a small, cozy room with a big fire burning on the stone hearth at the back. A wooden table was pulled up close to the blaze, with a chair at either end and a branch of fat candles in the middle. On the other side of the hearth stood an overstuffed sofa adorned with several fat pillows and a knitted afghan that might have been one of Mrs. Weasley’s masterpieces, to judge by the questionable mixture of colors in it. All together, it was perfect.

Harry stepped into the room, grinning in satisfaction, and tossed his book bag onto the table. A flick of his wand lit the candles, then he set about pulling books, parchment, quills and ink from his bag. He had his nose in his Potions book when he heard the door open. He looked up expectantly.

Draco sidled into the room, his eyes darting about suspiciously.

"Hallo," Harry said, at his most cheerful.

Narrow eyes flicked to Harry's face, then away. Draco stared at the heavy velvet curtains that shrouded the tall windows, clearly remembering another room hung with velvet curtains, a room that had both protected and imprisoned him through a dark, half-forgotten nightmare. Harry braced himself for an explosion, but Draco merely blinked, his pinched look softening into one of cool amusement, and turned to offer Harry a smirk.

"Very cozy, Potter," he murmured, as he shut the door and moved across the room to the table, "but you forgot that nice, warm bed."

"We don't need a bed. We are here to study."

"Right." He settled gracefully into the empty chair, eyeing Harry through the steady candle flames. “You're _quite_ determined to get a passing grade on that essay?"

"Quite," Harry said repressively.

Draco sighed and let his satchel slip from his shoulder. "I was afraid of that. Well, show me what you've got, and we'll see if there's any way to salvage it."

Harry quickly lost all track of time. He found that he enjoyed working with Draco so much that even Potions became bearable, and he was quite pleased with his essay by the time he rolled it and stuffed it into his bag in a gesture of finality. Draco was still bent over a piece of parchment, filling in the last few notations on his star chart for Astronomy, and Harry watched the candlelight shining on his hair with a kind of muddled, sleepy fascination. Everything about Draco was so unique, so elegant, so undeniably Malfoyish and yet so incredibly alluring…

He jerked suddenly upright, realizing that he was falling asleep and getting painfully excited at the same time—a very awkward combination, especially when he came back into focus to find Draco's amused eyes fixed on him.

"You're about to fall out of that chair," Draco remarked in an offhand way, turning back to his chart.

"Mm." Harry yawned widely and staggered to his feet. "It's late. We'd better get back to our dormitories before Filch starts prowling the halls."

"I'm not finished."

Harry fully intended to pick up his own bag and head for the door, leaving Draco to finish his work alone, but somehow his feet took him over to the sofa instead. He sank gratefully into the cushions, eyeing the wand and bag that lay on the table from beneath drooping lids, thinking that they were much too far away to fetch just at the moment, and the sofa was much too comfortable to abandon. He could wait for Draco. It was only right that they brave the hallways and Filch's wrath together. Harry could smuggle him down to the dungeons under his invisibility cloak. Yes, he should definitely wait. He leaned his head on the high back of the sofa and shut his eyes.

The shift of the seat beneath him as another weight settled onto the cushion brought Harry nearly awake. A familiar body leaned into his, sliding beneath his arm and tucking in comfortably against his side. Eyes still blurred with sleep, Harry glanced down to find Draco's bright head resting in the hollow of his shoulder.

"We should go," he murmured.

Draco did not vouchsafe him a reply, merely squirming a bit to find a better position and closing his eyes. With an inward sigh of defeat, Harry abandoned all resistance and wrapped his arm around Draco's shoulders. Draco's flesh-and-blood right hand slid inside his robe to lie warmly against his ribs, and Harry sighed again, this time in contentment. He was asleep before he had time to think of Filch or the Gryffindor tower again.

* * *

Harry awoke with a start, his heart pounding and his body damp with sweat. He stared around the room in bewilderment, the shreds of his nightmare still trailing before his eyes, filling the darkness with horror. Then he remembered where he was, and reason returned to him.

The candles on the table had burnt to their sockets and the fire died to a sullen, red glow. Harry lay stretched out on the sofa, with his head on one arm and Draco sprawled on top of him, the garish afghan tucked about them both for warmth. As the fear pounding in Harry's blood dissipated, he struggled to catch his breath and relax into the sofa cushions again, but a soft, unexpected whisper sent a fresh jolt of alarm through him.

"Are you all right?"

He looked down at Draco to see his head raised and his eyes fixed on Harry's face. The red firelight reflected eerily in them. Harry shivered slightly in reaction. "I… had a bad dream."

"The same one as before?"

Harry nodded reluctantly. His hand came up to stroke Draco's hair and to press his head back down onto his chest, but the other boy resisted his touch. "Go back to sleep. I'm okay."

"Tell me about the dream," Draco said.

Harry shivered again and looked away from his steady gaze. "I'd rather not." He had managed to deflect Draco's curiosity about his dream that first night on the tower, but every time he had it in his presence, it became more difficult to shrug it off as unimportant.

"It's Voldemort," Draco stated flatly. "You're dreaming of him, or _through_ him, again."

"No, that's not it." Harry risked a sideways glance at his lover's intent face, but didn't dare to meet his eyes. His fingers toyed unconsciously with Draco's loose hair, while his mind plunged back into the ghastly dream and the memory of it played over his face. He could never hide his feelings from Draco, and even the darkness of the room could not shield him now.

"Tell me, Harry," Draco insisted, his voice soft but infinitely compelling.

"It's about me. And you." He felt the body lying so close to his stiffen slightly, as if bracing for a blow. "We're standing together on the Tower roof, kissing under the stars. All I can think of is how beautiful you are, how much I long to hold you, to gather you up in my arms and draw you into myself, and then I reach up to touch your face and I… my hands are grey and slimy. My fingers leave trails on your skin. I've…" he choked slightly on the words but forced them out through his thickened throat, "turned into a dementor, and all I want in the universe is to pull your mouth against mine and suck out your soul!"

Draco lay very still for a long, hideous moment, his body poised for flight or attack, while Harry waited, eyes closed against the sight of his cold, wary face. The longer that Draco went without speaking, the more desperate and angry Harry became—desperate for a sign from his beloved archangel of what damage his words had done, and angry with himself for speaking them at all. Most of all, he hated himself for having the dream to begin with, for allowing his subconscious fears to poison the very best and most precious part of his life.

"You're not a dementor, Harry," Draco said suddenly, breaking the charged silence. "If you wanted my soul, you would have taken it a year ago, when I was tied to you by the Blood Link and powerless to stop you."

"I know it, in my head. But somewhere inside me, in a dark place I can't find when I'm awake, I must want…" He swallowed audibly and added, "The worst part of it is that, in the dream, you don't seem to care what I am. You even… even tell me that you love me."

Draco abruptly slid up to bring his face on a level with Harry's. His eyes, no longer lost in shadow, were soft and full of light in the way that only Harry ever saw them. He smiled, piercing Harry with the blade of his beauty, and murmured, "Let's try a little experiment, shall we?"

At the touch of Draco's lips against his own, Harry could not quite smother a sob of relief. The other boy's mouth was warm, eager and achingly sweet. It filled him with heat and hunger, and any fear that he felt was lost so far beneath the desire that he could easily ignore it, so long as Draco went on kissing him.

It ended much too soon to suit Harry, but the teasing smile on Draco's face was almost worth losing the warmth of his lips. "Well? Were you tempted?"

Harry shook his head.

"Not even a little?" Draco asked wistfully.

"Not by your soul." Harry's hand slipped down Draco's back to stroke him suggestively, while he lifted his head to nibble on the other boy's throat.

"Oh. That's good." Draco tilted his head back, offering Harry more of himself. "That's very good."

With a laughing growl, Harry fastened both arms around Draco's body and rolled sharply to his left, spilling them both off the sofa and onto the thick rug before the fire. He landed on top of Draco, forcing a grunt from the smaller boy that Harry trapped in his own mouth before it could fully leave Draco's.

He had most of Draco's clothes off before he had to break the long, hungry kiss to wrestle with a stubborn button. As his lips parted reluctantly from the other boy's, Draco drew in a ragged breath and whispered, roughly, "Are you going to take my soul, along with the rest of me, Potter?"

"Don't say things like that," Harry protested, as he nearly tore the button from Draco's trousers in his impatience.

"I don't care what you are."

"That's because you _know_ I would never hurt you." The button free at last, Harry slid the offending clothing down off Draco's hips, then lifted his head to fix his lover with a compelling gaze. Golden wizarding fire sparked in his eyes and flickered over the planes of his face as he spoke. "Say it, Draco, just once. To _me_ , not to the monster in my dreams."

Draco grinned at him, but his smile twisted into a grimace of longing when Harry's hands slid tormentingly over his bare skin.

"Say it, and I'll save your life every day for the next hundred and fifty years, without asking for so much as a thank you. _Say it_."

Draco groaned his frustration and grabbed Harry's head between his hands, pulling him down into a furious kiss. It was not a dementor's kiss—Harry had no desire to actually take Draco's soul—but the hunger in him was almost as potent as what he had felt in his dream, and a surge of triumph filled him when he realized that he did not have to resist it.

*** *** ***

Harry could not quite meet Snape's eyes when he handed in his essay the next day. He was sure that, somehow, the Potions Master knew he had allowed Malfoy to help him and equally sure that this broke some heretofore unknown school rule that would get him punished or expelled. But Snape merely tossed Harry's roll of parchment onto the pile with all the others, a disdainful sneer plastered to his face, and waved the Gryffindor away.

He spent the next week trying not to think about the essay. The weather worsened, and neither Harry nor Draco wanted to go anywhere near their aerie on the North Tower. They retreated to the Room of Requirement every evening, and to Harry's great relief, actually did their homework before curling up on the sofa together or making love in front of the fire. Harry saw his mound of work shrinking steadily and his marks improving.

The day Snape returned the essays, Harry almost skived off of Potions, too afraid to face him in a room full of largely hostile classmates. Ron was ready to join him in a spot of truancy, but Hermione flatly refused and marched them both down to the dungeon. Once he was seated at the table with his cauldron in front of him, Harry found it easier to stay and face the music than come up with an excuse to run.

Snape started the class by sweeping from table to table, tossing rolls of parchment at glum students with asnide comment for each. Harry waited, a sinking panic in his stomach, for him to reach their table, then braced himself for the worst.

Snape flung the essay at him and snarled, at his nastiest, "Got Granger to do your work for you again, did you, Potter?"

Harry caught the parchment in slightly unsteady hands. "No, Sir."

"Five points from Gryffindor, for being a liar as well as a cheat." He turned and stalked away, not bothering to glance at Hermione, so he did not see the utter surprise on her face.

Harry unrolled the paper and stared in amazement at the mark scrawled in poison-green ink across the page. He had passed! And not merely squeaked by, but managed a respectable grade! Hermione looked just as stunned as Harry himself when she caught sight of his mark.

"Well done, Harry," she hissed, when Snape was out of earshot. 

Harry just grinned and bent over his cauldron, determined to concentrate on his potion and earn another passing grade.

Later, at the Gryffindor table over supper, Hermione brought up the essay again. "I'm very impressed, Harry. How did you manage it?"

"I _worked_ on it," he said, firmly.

"Yes, but…" Her eyes skated over to the Slytherin table, and the boy sitting alone at the far end. "Harry, you didn’t let Malfoy write it for you!"

Ron glanced up from his plate. "Good on you, mate, if you did. Only thing Ferret is good for."

"Ron!" Hermione protested.

"I didn't let Malfoy write my paper," Harry said in exasperation. "He _read_ it, and he told me where the mistakes were. That's all. I fixed it myself."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, peering at his face, then asked, "Is that where you go every night? To study with Malfoy?"

"Yes. And before you get in a fuss about it, there’s no rule that says students from different houses can't study together."

"Of course not!" Hermione's brows flew up. "I think it's an excellent idea, as long as you aren't letting him do the work for you…"

"And what makes you think I need Draco to do my work? Potions is the only class he's better at than me. Besides, he spends most of his time on Astronomy, which we're not even taking anymore."

"Astronomy?" Ron looked confused. "What's he want with Astronomy? You can't poison or hex people with that."

Harry shrugged. "It's his favorite class. He spends hours drawing up charts and plotting the movements of constellations. He's very keen on stars."

"Mental," was Ron's verdict, as he once more attacked the heap of food on his plate.

"Where do you go to study?" Hermione asked.

"Someplace private," Harry answered evasively. At Hermione's knowing, faintly prissy look, he added, "It's not like I can invite Draco into the Gryffindor common room for a spot of Potions homework by the fire."

"The library?" she suggested, in a tone of voice that indicated she believed the library to be the solution to every problem.

"Full of nosy people who would love to accidentally set Malfoy's robes on fire. Come on, Hermione, admit it. There's no public place in this castle where we can sit together, do our work, and not be attacked by half the school."

"So, where do you go?"

Harry shot a surreptitious look up and down the table to make sure no hostile ears were listening and dropped his voice to a mutter. "Room of Requirement."

"Oooh, that's good, Harry!" Her approval changed abruptly to suspicion, and she gave him a squinty look. "Humph. I'll bet that room gives you a lot more than space to study."

Harry grinned. "I'm sure it would, if I asked, but I'm trying to keep my mind on my work. Come see for yourself sometime, if you don't believe me."

"Oh, right, Malfoy would love that—me barging in on your study sessions to make sure you aren't getting too cozy! I think I'll just take your word for it."

As it happened, Hermione did not have to rely on Harry's word for long. Their first class the next morning was Charms. Now preparing for their N.E.W.T.s, only a few Sixth and Seventh Years from each House had made it to this level, and Flitwick was pushing them harder than ever before. Even Hermione struggled with some of the spells. Today, they were practicing the Aegis Charm, a containment spell used to neutralize a magical opponent by imprisoning him and not allowing him to use his power. When it worked, the person trapped in the charm could do no magic at all. But if the prisoner could summon more power than his opponent, he could use a counter-charm to break free.

The class split up into pairs, pushed their desks aside to make room, and took turns casting the spell at each other. Every time a spell broke, it gave a high, piercing wail and sent a puff of purplish smoke spiraling toward the ceiling, so the room was quickly filled with plaintive cries and a swirling, purple pall.

Flitwick stood on his stool at the front of the class, waving his wand in excitement and calling shrilly over the din, “The Aegis Charm is about _confidence!_ You can control any opponent if you _believe_ you can!”

“What rubbish,” Hermione muttered, as she faced off against Harry, “I can’t _believe_ myself stronger than you!”

Harry grinned and raised his own wand. “Sure you can. Just give it a try.”

“ _Aegio!_ ” Hermione said loudly, the wobble in her voice betraying her nervousness. A jet of pearl-white light shot from the end of her wand and blossomed into a shimmering bubble that completely enclosed Harry. He was still visible within the spell, but his outline was blurred and his features lost behind the shifting, multi-colored surface.

“Very good, Miss Granger!” Flitwick enthused from across the room. “Excellent!”

But in the next instant, Hermione’s bubble popped. It wailed and vanished in a curl of smoke, leaving Harry standing there with his wand in his hand, smiling apologetically.

“Oh, bother!” Hermione said.

“No, no, no, you must concentrate, Miss Granger!” Flitwick cried, nearly toppling off his stool in his agitation. “ _Concentrate!_ ”

All around them, their classmates were being swallowed by enormous soap bubbles or reappearing in a haze of purple smoke. Harry heard Ron whooping with laughter and turned to see Ernie MacMillan, trapped in Ron’s charm, hacking at it with the tip of his wand. The bubble stretched and bounced but did not break.

In the far corner, Luna was saying to Draco in her dreamiest voice, “I wear an amulet made of Crumple-Horn ivory to ward off malignant charms.”

“Well, let’s see if it works,” Draco replied and brandished his wand.

As Draco’s charm formed around her, Luna turned on the spot, gazing in fascination at the soft colors playing across its surface.

“Try to break free, Luna,” Flitwick chided. “Use your magic, if you can.”

“Oh, but it’s much too pretty to break,” Luna sighed.

“Do pay attention, Harry,” Hermione snapped, bringing Harry’s eyes away from Luna’s antics and back to her. “It’s your turn to cast the charm.”

“Better get your wand up, Potter,” Ernie chortled, “or can you only do that for Malfoy?”

Harry rolled his eyes at Hermione but held his tongue. The Hufflepuff never missed a chance to rib Harry, in a clumsy but good-natured way, about his romance with Malfoy. Harry found his idea of a joke irritating, but it was better than the sideways looks and hissed insults he got from most of the school, so he let it pass. At least Ernie never called Draco “Potter’s Plaything”.

Harry pointed his wand at Hermione. “ _Aegio!_ ”

Light poured from the wand, quickly enclosing Hermione in a bubble much thicker and more opaque than any other in the room. Hermione uttered a little choke of alarm but stood her ground and raised her wand, trying gamely to summon her power.

As Flitwick had said, the Aegis charm was largely a matter of confidence, but it was also a test of raw power. Hermione, for all her brilliance, did not have the confidence to pit her power against Harry’s. After less than a minute, she let her wand fall and called desperately, “Enough! Let me out!”

Harry banished the spell to find his partner angry, red-faced and close to tears.

“If I flunk Charms because of you, I’ll never forgive you, Harry Potter.”

“Come on, Hermione, it’s only your first try. Have another go at me.”

She tried several more times, fighting Harry’s charm over and over again, until the class finally ended. Released from yet another bubble of power, she almost ran to her desk to collect her belongings and make good her escape.

“Practice your Aegis Charms for the next class,” Flitwick called, as they shoved their desks back into position and began to collect their belongings. “Each of you must contain your partner for five minutes.”

“ _Five minutes?!_ ” Anthony Goldstein wailed. Both he and his partner, Padma, had failed to maintain the charm for more than a few seconds.

Flitwick smiled and bounced up on his toes. “I’ll be timing you!”

“Can we change partners?” Hermione asked, a note of desperation in her voice.

“Only after you succeed with the one you’ve got. Confidence, Miss Granger! Don’t let Mr. Potter intimidate you!”

Flushed and grumbling, Hermione stuffed her books into her bag and stomped out of the classroom, trailing Harry and Ron after her.

"Well, you're just going to have to cancel your study session with Malfoy tonight, Harry," Hermione insisted, as they started up the stairs toward the seventh floor. "You can work with us in the common room."

"And listen to Seamus' foul jokes all evening? Forget it."

"Honestly, Harry, you shouldn't let Seamus get to you. You have as much right to study in the common room as he does…"

"I don't _want_ to study in the common room. I _want_ to study with Draco in the Room of Requirement, and considering that my marks have gone up and I'm getting all my homework done for a change, I should think you'd be glad that I do!"

"I'm not going to fail Charms, because you can't keep away from your boyfriend for one evening!"

"Nobody said anything about failing. Come to the Room of Requirement with me, and we can practice there."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, then shut it with a snap and flushed an even darker red.

"Just go with him, Hermione," Ron advised. "No point in arguing about it, and it's not like Malfoy bites."

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you, Ron. I don't see you jumping at the chance to spend the evening in Harry and Malfoy's love nest!"

" _Love nest!_ "

Harry's shout came just as they reached the portrait hole. The Fat Lady gave him a severe look. "Up to your tricks again, young man?" she demanded.

"I told you, it's _not_ a love nest!" he hissed, ignoring the Fat Lady. "It's just a quiet place to study, where no one bothers us. And if you're so worried about our Charms homework, then you'll come with me tonight."

Hermione glared at him for a minute, then snapped, "Hadn't you better ask Malfoy about this?"

"He won't mind. He heard Flitwick give us the assignment, so he knows we have to work together."

She gnawed her lip for another moment, then said, "I'll go, if Ron does."

"Leave me out of this!" Ron bellowed.

Harry sighed. "Just come with us, Ron."

"After all, it's not like Malfoy bites," Hermione added sweetly.

 

The three Gryffindors headed for the Room of Requirement directly after dinner. Harry pictured his usual study space, with a few extra chairs thrown in, and walked three times past the stretch of blank wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. When he pushed open the door to usher Hermione in, he heard her give a little grunt of satisfaction and knew that she had finally accepted his word that he actually came here to study, rather than to snog.

Ron threw himself down on the sofa and pulled his copy of _Practical Defensive Magic_ from his satchel. "This is sweet, Harry. No titchy little First Years underfoot, and I get a whole sofa to myself, right by the fire."

Hermione eyed him sourly. “What's that sofa for, anyway?"

Harry laughed. "For Ron to sleep on while the rest of us work."

"Oi!" Ron hoisted the book to display its title. "This _is_ a school book!"

"Right." Dropping his bag on the table, Harry pulled out his wand and gave it a flick to light the candles. "The Aegis Charm. Do you want to try casting it first, or breaking it?"

Half an hour later, when the door opened once more to admit Draco Malfoy, Ron was snoozing behind his text book, while Harry fought to keep Hermione trapped in a swirling bubble of magic. Harry heard the click of the latch and looked over his shoulder to see Draco standing in the doorway, his face frozen and his eyes darting suspiciously about the room. He lowered his wand, letting the shimmer of power around Hermione fade, and turned to give the Slytherin a shamefaced smile.

"Hallo, Draco."

Malfoy did not move or acknowledge his greeting. He simply stood in the open door, gazing at the room from behind the perfect, white mask of his face.

Ron peered over his book and said, casually, "Hey, Ferret."

Malfoy nodded expressionlessly. "Weasel."

"You going to stand there like a prat all night?"

Some of the rigidity drained from Malfoy's face, and his body relaxed. He stepped into the room, shut the door carefully behind him, and strolled over to the table. As he pulled out a chair, Harry bent close to murmur, "Sorry I didn't warn you they were coming. Hermione and I have to practice Charms together, and I thought…"

Draco's eyes lifted to meet his. Harry saw no anger in them, only a lurking wariness that came as no surprise. The Slytherin would not take kindly to this Gryffindor invasion, and even having accepted it, he would keep his guard up. But that didn't trouble Harry, who was used to coping with Draco’s prickly, defensive moods.

Draco cocked an eyebrow at Harry, a sardonic smile curling his lips. "I saw you two messing about in class.” Then, in a fair imitation of Ernie’s hearty tone, “Couldn't keep your wand up, could you, Potter?"

"Come over here and I'll show you just how well I keep it up!"

"Har- _ry_!" Hermione wailed in protest.

Harry gave her his most innocent look. "I just meant that I can try my Aegis Charm on Malfoy."

"Sure you did."

Draco tossed his satchel onto the table and folded himself into a chair, shooting Harry another provocative glance from the corner of his eyes as he did so. "Run away and play with Granger. I'm not giving you the chance to block my magic."

"Afraid?" Harry taunted, lightly.

"Prudent," Draco retorted."There's no telling what you'd get up to, if you had me at your mercy. Gryffindors are not to be trusted."

"Says the Slytherin Rodent," Ron interjected, from behind his book.

Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement.

Harry waved his wand in a gesture of invitation. "Ready to try again?”

She nodded, lifted her wand, and prepared for his spell.

" _Aegio!_ "

The charm flew from the tip of Harry's wand to form its enormous soap bubble around her. Hermione stared at the magic barrier, gnawing her lip.

"Go on, try to break it!" Harry called.

She sucked in her breath, screwed her eyes shut, and held her breath as she struggled to draw on her own power. Harry felt the pressure of her magic against his spell, attempting to burst it open, and he fed more power into his wand. Hermione pushed harder; Harry's wand began to vibrate, and a few white-gold sparks shot from its tip.

Suddenly, the pressure eased. Hermione let her wand fall and Harry followed suit, allowing his charm to fade out. Hermione looked thoroughly disgruntled.

“Why’d you stop?”

"How am I supposed to cast the counter-charm when I can't use magic?" she demanded crossly, her face flushed with annoyance.

“You have to summon stronger magic than mine, then you can break my spell."

"And I'm supposed to overpower _you?_ The most powerful wizard in the school?"

"I'm not, Hermione. You know I'm not. You just have to _try_."

"I thought I was trying," she grumbled, as she grabbed her book bag and began throwing things out of it. Quills, parchment and loose pages of _The Daily Prophet_ went flying, until she unearthed her Charms text book. She opened it to the page on Containment Charms, flopped down in a chair, and began to read furiously.

Harry watched her in exasperation for a moment, then he tugged the book from her hands and closed it. “Reading the chapter again is not going to help. You almost did it the last time, you just gave up too soon. Come on, try again.”

She made an angry noise in her throat and bounded to her feet. Turning to confront Harry once more, she said, defiantly, “This time, you have to break my charm.”

“Right, then.” Harry tossed her book back onto the table, crossed to the middle of the room, and drew his wand. “Ready?”

“Keep that wand up, Potter,” Draco chided, earning him a laugh from Harry and a growl from Hermione.

“You two should take this spell more seriously. It could save your fool necks.”

“I take it plenty seriously. That’s why I won’t let Potter cast it in my direction.” Nodding at Harry, who stood poised, wand at the ready, he urged, “Go on, then, Granger. Show the Hero of the Wizarding World what you can do.”

Once again, Hermione held her breath, screwed her face up in a grimace of concentration, and cast the charm. Light blossomed from her wand, brighter than any she had produced before, and formed a bubble around Harry. The non-combatants watched as Harry raised his wand and mouthed the counter-spell. Nothing happened. Hermione let her breath out in a whoop of delight that immediately turned to a moan, as Harry’s power surged.

“Noooo!”

“Hang on, Granger.”

She cut a glance to her left to see Malfoy standing beside her, pointing one adamant finger at Harry. He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed in concentration and a stream of pearly light erupted from the tip of his finger. The spell spread and wrapped itself around the bubble formed by Hermione’s charm, creating a second, larger barrier that nearly concealed Harry’s figure trapped inside.

“Hey! No fair!” Harry called, his voice muffled by the doubled spells.

“Is that going to work?” Ron asked.

“We’ll find out,” Draco said in an oddly flat, distant voice.

“The book says…” Hermione started, but Malfoy cut her off.

“Shut up about the book and concentrate.”

She obeyed, turning her mind to the task of containing Harry’s power with a new confidence. Alone, she didn’t stand a chance, but with Malfoy helping her… Maybe—she hated to think it, but she couldn’t help herself—just maybe the book was wrong.

Almost before the thought had formed in her head, she felt Harry lash out at her containment charm, hitting it with a blast of power that ripped through it as if it really were no more than a soap bubble. Hermione cried out and staggered back. At the same moment, Malfoy’s spell burst as well, and the room was filled with wailing cries. Purple smoke billowed up toward the ceiling.

“Wicked!” Ron gloated. “Sounds like Crookshanks with his tail caught in a door!”

Draco slowly lowered his hand, looking bemused.

“What happened?” Harry asked. “Where was Draco’s charm?”

Draco shook his head. “It got blown apart.”

“I tried to tell you,” Hermione snapped in her best know-it-all tone, “the book says you can’t stack containment spells like that. The Aegis Charm is a one-to-one contest between magical opponents.”

“Exactly the sort of rubbish you’d expect from a school book. It tells you what you can’t do but doesn’t bother to explain why.”

“Well, now we know why,” she retorted crossly.

“We do?” Harry strolled over to join them. “Why?”

“Because the spells don’t mingle. They don’t work together.”

“It’s worse than that,” Malfoy said. “When Granger’s spell broke, the power in it combined with yours to cut right through my spell like it was made of parchment.”

“So stacking them up just makes the counter-spell stronger,” Ron said. “I wonder what would happen if you stacked up even more of them? How big an explosion could you get?”

Before they could speculate any further about this, Harry turned sparkling eyes on Draco and said, “I bet we could do it! Make the spells really work together! Come here.” Catching Draco around the waist, he planted the smaller boy directly in front of him and pulled him back to lean against his chest. Then he stuck out his wand in front of them both.

“Let’s use my wand.”

Draco smiled in understanding and touched his adamant fingertip to Harry’s wand. “What are we aiming for?”

“That empty chair.”

“The chair can’t fight back. Let’s try it on Weasley.”

“Hey!” Ron protested, straightening up in alarm, but Harry just laughed and pointed his wand at the chair.

Then, as Ron and Hermione watched in open-mouthed amazement, golden wizarding power began to dance across the planes of Harry’s face. It brightened, spread, flowed over the boy standing so close in his arms, and Draco seemed to melt into Harry’s body. At the same time, silver threads appeared among the gold, thickening the net of power that entwined them.

“On my count,” Harry said, softly. “One, two, three…”

Light poured from the tip of Harry’s wand. The chair vanished in a huge, opaque bubble. Power hummed in the air, making the lamps on the walls flare brighter and lifting the the hair Hermione’s forearms. With a flick of his wand, Harry sent the containment charm soaring up to the ceiling, taking the chair with it, and kept it hanging there for a long minute. Then, without apparent effort, he brought it back down to rest on the floor and let the flow of power die.

For a breathless moment, no one moved. Then Harry bent his head to murmur in Draco’s ear, “That’s how you share power.”

“That was _brilliant_ ,” Ron said, fervently.

Draco turned in the circle of Harry’s arm to gaze up at him. The last traces of power seemed to flicker across the Slytherin’s face as their eyes locked, and both boys smiled in the same instant.

Hermione looked at them for a startled moment, then abruptly spun on her heel and marched over to the table, saying in an unnaturally high voice, “It’s getting late, Ron. We have to get back to the common room.”

“Huh?” Ron eyed her flushed, determined face in confusion. “I’ve still got…”

“Come _on_ , Ronald!” She grabbed his feet and swung them to the floor, then proceeded to shove all her belongings randomly into her over-stuffed bag. “We can’t let Filch catch us in the halls!”

“You’re mental,” Ron opined, but he surrendered to her prodding and heaved himself to his feet.

Barely a minute later, Hermione swept Ron out of the room ahead of her, calling an overly-cheerful good night over her shoulder, leaving Harry and Draco alone in the room.

As the door swung shut on her heels, Harry looked down into Draco’s smoldering eyes and asked, “How much homework have you got?”

“None that matters.”

His smile widened. “That’s what I thought.” And he stooped to bring his lips to the other boy’s.

* * *

“What was all that about?”

Harry lifted his head to find taunting, grey eyes fixed on him. “Hm?”

The two boys lay together on the rug in front of the dying fire, while Harry lazily traced lines on Draco’s skin with a fingertip, following the contours picked out in deep, subterranean, orange light. Interrupted in his rapt contemplation of his lover’s naked body by firelight, it took Harry a moment to bring his mind back into focus. He blinked at the Slytherin and asked, “What was what?”

“All that rubbish about sharing power. Were you trying to seduce me? Or were you just showing off for Granger?”

Harry grinned. “Maybe a little of both. Why? Are you sorry I seduced you?”

Draco made a low, throaty sound that strongly resembled a purr. “Do I look sorry?”

Harry ran his eyes over the boy sprawled in utter satisfaction beside him and chuckled. “You look like you’ve got no bones left.”

“I don’t.”

Rolling onto his stomach, Draco rested his head on one arm and closed his eyes. Harry waited until he’d once more gone inert, then resumed his task of finding and following every glowing highlight on his body—using his lips this time, instead of his finger. At the touch of Harry’s mouth on his skin, Draco made his purring sound again.

“Did you see her face when she bolted out of here?” Harry mumbled in between caresses. “She was so red I thought she was going to spontaneously combust.”

“You didn’t have to embarrass her to get into my pants.”

“It got her to leave, didn’t it?”

Draco laughed, the sound muffled in the crook of his elbow. “Why did you really do it?”

Harry lifted his head. “The charm?”

“Mm. You knew we could make it work, so what was the point, if not to show off for your Gryffindor friends? Was it really all about showing them what we could do?”

“I suppose I did want them to see it, but it was mostly for us. I wanted to feel us doing magic together.”

“Almost like we had the Blood Link again…”

“Exactly.” Harry straightened up and fixed his unseeing gaze on the fire, while tempting visions swam before his eyes. “You felt it, too, didn’t you? How strong we are together?”

“Yes, but I expected it. I remember what it feels like to have Harry Potter’s wizarding power inside me.”

“Sharing our power like that,” he breathed reverently, “we could do _anything_.”

“Like beat Voldemort?” Draco asked, his voice infinitely dry.

Harry’s eyes came abruptly back into focus. He flushed and grinned triumphantly. “I’ll bet we could! You and me together… we’re stronger than Voldemort!”

“Prat,” Draco muttered softly. Twisting onto his side so he could face his lover directly, he fixed Harry with warm, sleepy eyes—eyes overflowing with the love he would never put into words. “You know I’ll fight beside you, whether or not we stand a chance of winning.”

“I know.”

His hand came up to touch Harry’s face with unexpected gentleness, “And I’ll give you every bit of my power, if you need it.”

Harry brushed a kiss on his fingertips. “I know.”

“And when the time comes, I’ll die with you.” As he breathed the last words, he brought his lips to Harry’s, opening his mouth in a wordless, potent offer.

Harry caught him up in his arms and pulled their bodies tightly together, at the same moment that he plunged into the kiss. He didn’t bother to tell Draco that they weren’t going to die, that together they had the power to defeat Voldemort, that their demonstration tonight had proven that love was a weapon they could use to save themselves and the entire wizarding world. He didn’t need to say these things. Draco understood them, even if he refused to acknowledge it. And Harry had better things to do right now than argue with his beloved. Much better things.

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	3. Disinheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets bad news from the Ministry and finds it increasingly hard to live under Dumbledore's guardianship.

****October was shaping up into a grim month in every respect. The weather deteriorated into a series of brutal storms, complete with torrential rain, wind, and lightning that seemed to cleave the magical ceiling of the Great Hall in half with every bolt. Professor Sprout filled the greenhouses with pots of magical fire that warmed both plants and students, but Herbology classes were still an exercise in misery, and students who could perform adequate warming or drought spells became suddenly very popular.

Harry and Draco felt no desire to expose themselves to the bleak rooftop of the North Tower in this weather, no matter how good Harry's warming spells, and were grateful for the haven provided by the Room of Requirement. After Ron and Hermione’s first appearance, their study group had gradually expanded to include a select group of friends—Ginny, Neville, Luna, Crabbe— who could be counted on not to blab about where they went after supper. They had settled into a comfortable routine, and everyone benefited from it. Draco had so far relaxed his haughty reserve that he often practiced charms with Luna or defensive spells with Ron, and once he had even deigned to correct Neville's Potions homework. Poor Neville had nearly fainted from shock, and it took every ounce of nerve he possessed to squeak out a 'thank you', when Malfoy shoved the parchment back across the table to him.

No arguments or hostility marred the quiet pleasure of these evenings, beyond the usual bickering of Ron and Hermione or the periodic outbursts from Malfoy when Crabbe's stupidity pushed him beyond the bounds of patience. Harry rigidly enforced the rules about outsiders—no disapproving girlfriends or chattering Creeveys—and about discussing their activities with others. They were breaking no rules, of that he was sure, but he didn't want teachers or classmates interfering in what was rapidly becoming his favorite part of life at Hogwarts.

Outside the sheltered environment of the castle, things went from bad to worse. Every edition of the _Daily Prophet_ reported more disappearances, arrests and attacks. It seemed as if half the student body was mourning a lost family member or waiting hopelessly for word of a missing loved one.

One foul, stormy morning in the third week of October, Harry arrived in the Great Hall a bit late for breakfast, having spent the night in the Room of Requirement with Draco and forgotten to set an alarm charm before he fell asleep on the sofa. He had run up to the dormitory to change his clothes, but he still looked sleepy and scruffy, and he yawned widely as he slid into a space between Ron and Ginny.

Ginny smirked at him and rolled her eyes. Ron, on the other hand, did not so much as glance at Harry. His attention was riveted to the newspaper spread on the table in front of Hermione.

Harry grabbed the nearest dish of scrambled eggs and shoveled a healthy serving onto his plate. "What's up?" he asked, casting a sideways look at the paper.

Ron didn't answer. His mouth was half open and, for once, empty of food. His face had turned alarmingly white.

"Ron? Is it someone we know?"

"Blimey," Ron breathed.

Hermione shook her head in silent distress and shoved the paper at Harry. He grabbed it, spread it out where Ginny could see it as well, and began to read.

 

**AZKABAN FALLS**

_The Ministry of Magic revealed today that You-Know-Who has taken control of Azkaban prison, freeing his followers held there and bringing the dementors under his sway. The Ministry was warned of the imminent attack by unnamed spies…_

 

"Dumbledore's spies, I'll bet you anything," Ginny whispered.

 

_… and attempted to defend the prison with elite Magical Law Enforcement wizards, who were overrun by You-Know-Who's forces after three days of fighting. Eyewitnesses report that the defenders could not stand against the giants brought in by You-Know-Who on the final day. Several Ministry wizards were killed and many more taken prisoner. Those prisoners are now being held in Azkaban, and You-Know-Who has turned the island fortress into his headquarters._

_Family members of the captured wizards descended upon the Ministry in large numbers this morning, demanding action from Cornelius Fudge, the embattled Minister for Magic._

_"We're doing everything we can for those people," Fudge told a muttering, hostile crowd in the Atrium. "Of course we're going to rescue them, but you can't mount an assault on Azkaban in one morning. And we're talking about—well, you know, Lord What's His Name, after all."_

 

Harry threw the paper away in disgust. He found it impossible to read Fudge's words without choking on his own anger, so deep did his resentment of the Minister for Magic run. He could hear Fudge's pompous voice, trying and failing to sound authoritative, while his pudgy face went blotchy with fear and his hands twiddled that ridiculous bowler he always carried. Whatever chance those wizards in Azkaban might stand of rescue, it did not come from Fudge or the Ministry.

His eyes cut up to the head table, where Dumbledore's chair stood empty, and he smiled grimly to himself. He'd be willing to bet half the contents of his Gringott's vault that Dumbledore was organizing a raid on the prison right now.

With that thought, Harry realized that he did not know how many of the Order had been involved in the original assault. Did Dumbledore have any troops left to command? Snatching the paper back, he scanned the page for names and found a list of the dead and captured near the bottom. His first concern was to determine that no Weasleys appeared on either list. When he had satisfied himself on that count, he read the names more carefully, noting a few that he recognized but only one to which he could attach a face: Sturgis Podmore, killed fighting on the walls.

When he looked up from the paper again, he found Ron's eyes on him, looking bleak and frightened.

"Your family's okay, anyway," Harry murmured.

"Until they go in to rescue all those people."

Harry could think of nothing to say to that, so he changed the subject abruptly. "I wonder how long it'll be before Voldemort tries to take Hogwarts again?"

Ron just shook his head, at a loss for words.

Neither of them doubted that Hogwarts—or at least Dumbledore and Harry—would be Voldemort's next target, and neither of them particularly wanted to think about what that meant. But Harry could not stop his eyes from cutting over to the Slytherin table, where Draco sat with Vincent Crabbe in regal isolation, and wondering just what form Voldemort’s inevitable attack would take. It would involve Draco, that much he knew, but that was all he knew for certain. Every time he thought of what the Dark Lord had already done to his archangel, guilt squirmed sickeningly in his stomach, and he wished he had the strength to walk away from Draco. But it was too late, he told himself. The whole wizarding world knew how he felt about Draco Malfoy, the damage was done, and no gesture of noble sacrifice on Harry's part would protect him now. Better to stay close, where he could watch his back and provide another wand in a fight, than abandon his love in a fit of misplaced chivalry.

 

Draco did not have a subscription to the _Daily Prophet_ , not interested in reading the regular slanders of Harry and himself over breakfast every morning, so he didn’t have anything to distract him from his plate of eggs and toast. Crabbe sat across the table from him, steadily excavating a mountain of food and saying little. To Draco’s left, a wide stretch of empty bench separated them from the rest of the Slytherins and excluded them from their conversation, which suited Draco’s mood perfectly. He was not given to chat over breakfast and had nothing to say to his housemates, anyway, so he and Crabbe ate in a companionable, if rather dull silence.

The whir of wings and flying rainwater announced the arrival of the morning Owl Post. Neither boy paid any attention, not having anyone outside the castle who might send them mail, until a feathered body swooped low over Draco’s head. He looked up in surprise, just in time to receive a mini shower of raindrops in his face from the wings of a large Barn owl. It let an envelope fall into his plate, hooted once, and soared away before he had quite realized that he’d received a letter.

Fishing the envelope out of his eggs, Draco turned it over to examine the official-looking seal on its flap. His stomach contracted painfully. The Ministry of Magic. This could not be good.

He tore open the envelope, pulled out a heavy piece of parchment, unfolded it, and read:

 

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_This is to inform you that the Ministry of Magic has confiscated all property, assets, moveables and magical artifacts belonging to the Undesirables Lucius Malfoy (deceased) and Narcissa Black Malfoy. This includes the house, contents and grounds of the estate known as Malfoy Manor, in the county of Wiltshire. The Ministry has taken this step in order to prevent the considerable wealth amassed by the Malfoy family from falling into the wrong hands._

_Please be advised that, as a ward of the Ministry, deemed mentally incompetent and a danger to yourself and others, you have no rights of ownership or inheritance under Wizarding Law. The Ministry is under no obligation to allow you access to any property formerly belonging to the Malfoy family. However, as a courtesy, the Minister for Magic will allow you to enter Malfoy Manor to retrieve any personal items you may have left there, before the building is sealed and its contents impounded._

_If you choose to avail yourself of this offer, be warned that you will be searched by Ministry officials upon entering and leaving the manor. Any attempt to remove contraband, magical artifacts, or items rightfully belonging to the Ministry will be severely punished._

_Your legal guardian may contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to arrange for your visit._

_Sincerely,_

_Dolores Umbridge_

_Senior Undersecretary to the Minister  
_ _Ministry of Magic_

 

Next to the signature was a blob of sickly pink wax with the imprint of a kitten in it.

Draco stared blindly at the page, while the words on it squirmed and roiled sickeningly. He could not make his eyes focus on them or his mind absorb them. He could not make his hands move to fold the parchment and spare himself the sight of them. He could do nothing but sit there, quite literally frozen with shock, while the kitten simpered at him.

“What’s up?” Crabbe grunted, breaking the paralysis that gripped him.

Draco looked up at him and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Swimming before his eyes, blocking out the sight of Crabbe’s homely, worried face, was an image of himself standing in the elegant entrance hall of Malfoy Manor, surrounded by Ministry wizards who were pulling his socks and pants from his pockets and tossing them in pathetic, crumpled heaps on the floor. His stomach twisted in horror.

“Hey, you okay? You look like you’re gonna be sick.”

Draco lurched to his feet, suddenly desperate to get out of that room and all the hostile eyes that he could feel on his back. They didn’t know what was in the letter—they couldn’t—but they knew he was in trouble again, and they relished it. He could feel it in the very air, the seething, gloating hatred that collected around him like a miasma every time he held still long enough for them to find him. He had to get away.

“Malfoy?”

“I have to go…” He stalled out, realizing that he had no idea how to finish that sentence.

“Where?” Crabbe demanded in a surly tone. “To talk to Precious Potter?”

Draco shook his head and clambered over the bench, feeling strangely clumsy. He made it to the door without tripping over anything or running into the walls, but it was purely by instinct. He was halfway across the entry hall, automatically heading for the dungeons and safety, when he heard a voice hail him.

“Draco, wait.” He turned to see Harry slip out the door and cross the marble floor to him. “Are you all right? You look…”

“Like I’m going to be sick. I’ve been told.”

Harry stopped in front of him but did not touch him—not in this exposed place—and fixed his impossibly expressive eyes on the Slytherin. “What happened?”

“Not now. I can’t… I…”

In the middle of this incoherent reply, Professor Snape appeared at the top of the main staircase. His bitter, black eyes fixed on the two boys, and his sallow face twisted into a sneer. He started down the stairs, black robes flapping like wings.

“The Headmaster wants to speak to you, Malfoy.”

Draco started. “Am I in trouble?”

“I don’t know.” Snape’s eyes slid over to Harry and narrowed maliciously. “What have you two been up to?”

“Nothing,” Harry said defiantly, adding only just in time, “Sir.”

Snape twitched his head in the direction of the Great Hall. “Finish your breakfast, Potter, and get to class.”

“Malfoy’s had some bad news,” Harry said, staunchly. “I need to talk to him.”

The cold, black eyes narrowed even more. “Do as you’re told. Or shall I start your day off by taking points from Gryffindor for your insolence?”

Harry glared at him for another beat, then turned back to Draco and reached out to clasp his cold fingers. “Talk to you later?”

Draco returned the pressure of his hand and nodded. Harry clung to his hand as he started to move, holding it just long enough to send a clear challenge to the glowering Snape, then let him go and went back into the Hall. Draco watched him disappear behind the huge, wooden doors, wishing that he could bring Harry with him to his audience with Dumbledore. He didn’t betray this thought to Snape, knowing the Potions Master would have no patience or sympathy with it, but turned and followed him up the stairs.

* * *

Dumbledore sat behind his massive desk, staring out a window at the stormy, grey clouds piling up over the Forbidden Forest. His eyes were fixed on the magnificent view, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Behind his impassive face, he was watching a slight, cold, aloof boy as he trod the steps up to the tower, full of anger and frustration and a fear he would not acknowledge, even to himself. A boy he had sworn to protect, had saved from a fate worse than death, but had, in his own estimation, failed in nearly every other way.

He heard a single, sharp knock on the door, and he turned his head to see Professor Snape and Draco Malfoy step into the room. Malfoy visibly stiffened as he crossed the threshold, drawing himself up proudly, lifting his head at a defiant angle.

So beautiful, Dumbledore reflected, as he always did when he saw the young man, and so damaged. Not the adamant hand, which had become a part of him by now, adding to his beauty and strength rather than detracting from it, but the unseen wounds of which the scar on his face was but the smallest outward sign. He loved Harry ferociously but was incapable of admitting it. He wanted to live down his family’s disgrace and fight for a just cause, but he distrusted that noble impulse, cloaking it in selfishness. He wanted belonging, trust, acceptance, a home and a family to replace the ones he was about to lose forever, but he could not ask for them or make the first move in the face of possible rejection. He could only stand there, his physical beauty and marble coldness giving him the appearance of a Classical statue, waiting for the next blow to fall.

Dumbledore regretted, as much as he regretted any of the cruel but necessary things he had done in his long life, that he had to be the one to deliver that blow.

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Headmaster.”

“Have a seat, please,” he said, at his most bland and avuncular.

Malfoy moved over to the nearest wingback chair and sat down on the flowered cushions, looking more than ever like a marble statue framed against them. Snape turned back for the door, intending to leave, but Dumbledore stopped him.

“Join us, Severus. I expect Mr. Malfoy would like to have you here.” Shifting his gaze back to Malfoy, he added, “You didn’t have much time for breakfast. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Malfoy shook his head fractionally, as Professor Snape folded himself into the farther chair.

“We didn’t come for tea, Dumbledore,” Snape said, his voice edged with impatience but still grudgingly respectful.

“No, but I find that we always have time for the little courtesies.” Clasping his hands very precisely on the desk, the Headmaster regarded Malfoy over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. When he spoke again, he had dropped the jolly note from his voice, turning it calm and serious.

“I understand you got a letter in this morning’s post.”

“Yes, sir.”

To Dumbledore’s surprise, Malfoy held out the Ministry envelope to him. He accepted it and drew out the letter. As his eyes scanned the lines of script, he felt anger rise in him like bile, souring his throat and tightening his lips.

“Dear Dolores,” he murmured, “always so gracious.” He handed the letter back to Draco, remarking as he did so, “I received one, as well, but I won’t burden you with its sentiments.”

“It’s the same as this?”

“In essentials.”

Draco raised his chin another notch in a show of courage and asked, “Can they do this? Take away my home and my inheritance and… everything?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And there’s nothing I can do to stop it?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Is it because I’m mentally incompetent?” The words came out harshly, betraying the effort it cost him to say them.

“That is their excuse, certainly, but not the real reason.”

“But, if I proved I’m competent, if I were a real adult with the rights she talks about—rights of ownership and inheritance—they’d have to give me my parents’ estate, wouldn’t they?”

“You could try to appeal the decision. I expect Fudge would find another excuse to confiscate the estate, but you could try.”

An eager light flared in his liquid-silver eyes, just for an instant, hinting at the emotion seething behind that porcelain mask. “You could tell them I’m sane and not a danger to anyone. Help me convince them that I won’t hand the estate over to the Dark Lord or use it to work against the Ministry. They won’t believe me, but they’d believe you…”

Here it came, the next blow that would gouge another chunk from his savaged heart. Dumbledore kept his voice gentle and kind, though he knew it would not soften the blow. “I’m afraid not, my boy.”

He watched, sadly, as his words sank through Malfoy’s armor and into the soft, sick, bleeding tissue beneath. “You won’t.”

“I won’t. But I have a reason.”

Malfoy’s eyes looked at him but did not seem to see him. They had gone blank and impenetrable, like glacier ice. His lips barely moved when he spoke. “What reason?”

“Any attempt to overturn the Wizengamot’s decision and free you from my guardianship would draw attention to you. It would bring you under the Minister’s eye again and force him to take more overt, more damaging action against you.”

“Why? I’m no danger to him now.”

“You are extremely dangerous, but not for the reasons Fudge thinks. You are the one person in this world that Harry will fight for, without hesitation or restraint, with all his power and all his heart, and with no possibility of defeat. That makes you a grave danger to anyone who threatens you, be it Cornelius Fudge or Lord Voldemort.”

Malfoy stared at him with those blank eyes, no hint of his true feelings in his frozen expression. After a moment, he said, “That’s why you want me here, under your control, isn’t it? So you can control _when_ Harry fights and make sure he wins when he does.”

“No, Draco, it is not.”

“It is, or you would help me get free of the Ministry and keep my home.”

Dumbledore sighed. “There’s a grain of truth in what you say. I do want Harry to fight, when the time comes. We all do. But he will fight Voldemort because he knows he must, not because I hold you hostage to force his hand. I also want you here for Harry. But only because I care for him very much, and I want to see him happy. He can’t be happy without you close to him. That’s a simple fact that has nothing to do with war and strategy and manipulation. It is only about love—the kind of love most people never experience, the kind of love only a fool would try to resist.”

“A fool like Fudge?”

“Precisely. Fudge wants to sully it. Voldemort wants to use it. I simply want to let it be—let you _both_ _be_ happy. I know you don’t believe me, and I’m sincerely sorry for that.”

Malfoy said nothing to this, and Dumbledore could only guess at his thoughts. The old wizard sat quietly, watching him, waiting for his next attempt to break free of the intolerable bonds that held him.

“The letter says I can go to the Manor…”

Dumbledore cut him off firmly. “That is out of the question.”

“I won’t try to take anything valuable, just a few of my own things. Maybe a picture of my parents, or…”

“The offer is a trap. I am sure of it.”

“How is it a trap? Does Fudge want to arrest me and throw me into Azkaban? Accuse me of stealing my own belongings? _What?_ ”

“I don’t know. It may not even be Fudge setting the trap. It may be agents of Voldemort who have infiltrated the Ministry and planted the idea in vulnerable minds, to get you away from the safety of Hogwarts.” Dumbledore eyed him in sympathy and said, “If you make a list of the belongings you want, I can send someone to collect them.”

“I’ll go,” Snape offered. “Or that house-elf of your father’s. What’s his name?”

Draco looked wildly from one man to the other, his facade cracking for the first time, allowing a hint of the horror inside him to leak through. “But… This is my _home!_ They’re taking my _home!_ ”

“I’m truly sorry, Draco,” Dumbledore said, but Malfoy didn’t seem to hear him.

“I just want to see it, while it’s still mine and I can call myself a Malfoy! I won’t take a single thing… won’t even _touch_ anything… Please, Professor!” He turned his wounded gaze on Snape, throwing every ounce of persuasiveness he possessed into his cry, “ _You_ can take me! Fudge won’t dare touch me, if you’re there! I promise I won’t do anything to cause you trouble, but I can’t let it go without seeing it one more time. _Please!_ ”

The pain in Snape’s face would have looked like fury to anyone who didn’t know him as well as Dumbledore did. His eyes were hard as chips of ebony, his sallow face taut with the effort of controlling himself. His lips barely moved as he ground out, “I can’t do that, Malfoy. I won’t help you put yourself in danger.”

Malfoy made a strangled noise that may have been a sob and flung himself back in his chair, his eyes shifting to one side, shuttered once more, effectively hiding his thoughts from both of the adults watching him with so much concern.

“It’s simply not safe for you to leave the castle grounds,” Dumbledore said, quietly, “whether or not the offer to visit Malfoy Manor is a trap.”

Malfoy had himself back under control again, even if he couldn’t look Dumbledore in the eyes when he spoke. “You let Harry leave— _made_ him leave—and he’s in far more danger than I am.”

“I made him leave, because the complex magic that has protected him since his parents’ death required it. I kept him away all summer, because we had concealment spells in place that would prevent Voldemort’s spies from locating him, and I wanted to delay the moment when he came into the open, as it were, by returning to the one place where anyone can find him. Now he’s here, and he’s in as much danger as you are and under the same restrictions.”

That finally forced Malfoy to look at the Headmaster. “He’s locked up here, too?”

“He is confined to the castle and grounds. But the uncomfortable fact is that I cannot hold him for long. Mr. Potter is now a legal adult in the eyes of the wizarding world and can go where he likes, even into the dragon’s mouth, so to speak.”

“But I’m not.”

“You are not, thanks to Cornelius Fudge and his machinations. You’re my ward and subject to my orders.” Dumbledore paused, then dropped his voice to an even softer murmur. “Don’t force me to make it an order, Draco. Stay on the grounds, safeguard yourself and, by extension, Harry. Don’t lure him away from my protection to rescue you. Don’t give either Fudge or Voldemort the means to hurt him.”

Malfoy grimaced at that, his beautiful face twisted with bitterness. “Love is a weapon.”

The old wizard nodded sagely, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “You would know that better than any of us. But consider this, my boy. A weapon can cut both ways. The weapon that the Dark Lord thinks to turn against you could be used to strike him down, instead.”

“You sound just like Harry. Now I know where he learned it.”

Dumbledore’s smile widened and started his eyes twinkling. “I’m glad to know he’s learned something from me.”

Malfoy suddenly rose to his feet and struck an aloof pose, his grace and bearing giving him the illusion of more height than he possessed. “Is there anything else, Professor? I’m already late for class.”

“No.” Dumbledore gestured toward the door. “Off you go, my boy. And when you tell Harry about this, try to keep it all in perspective. You know how he gets when he thinks you’re being mistreated. He’s likely to storm the Ministry to reclaim your rights as the Malfoy heir, and we can’t have that.”

“No, Sir,” Malfoy replied stiffly. Then he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, closing the door precisely behind him.

Dumbledore waited a beat, to give the young man time to step onto the stairs and move out of earshot, then he sighed, wilted a bit, and said, “That went about as I expected.”

“Did you really have to do that, Dumbledore? Make jokes about it?”

The silver brows rose high over suddenly serious blue eyes. “I was not joking.”

“That business about Potter?”

“Nothing but the truth, Severus. I only hope Mr. Malfoy took my warning to heart. Much as I hate to admit it, Voldemort and the centaurs are right about Draco. He is the single greatest threat to Harry’s safety and well-being.”

“Because the whole, bloody world revolves around Harry Potter.” With a weary sigh, Snape abandoned his hostile attitude and asked, “Why didn’t you tell him about the centaurs’ portents? It would have explained a lot.”

Shaking his head, Dumbledore murmured, sadly, “I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I meant to.” He lifted a little scroll, sealed with a blob of purple wax, from the litter of parchment on his desk. “I had it right here, ready to hand. But when I looked in his face, saw the pain and distrust there, my courage failed me.”

Snape gave a snort of disgust.

“You doubt me? The truth is, Severus, that I can’t bring myself to injure that boy any more than I must, and what could injure him more deeply than reading a confirmation of all his worst fears? No. Draco does not need to know the fate the stars have mapped out for him. He has enough to burden him.”

“It ends the same, either way.”

“Ah, no, Severus!” The light sprang up in those piercing eyes again, transforming his old, lined face in an instant. “That’s where you’re wrong! The centaurs’ warning is only words, and words have no power beyond what we give them.”

“But you are giving them power by acting on them.”

“I am responding to a threat from Voldemort, that is all. A real threat, not one foretold by the stars. Voldemort believes these portents, as he believes that Harry is destined to kill him if anyone can, and that gives the words power over him. It informs his actions. And it gives us a window into his thoughts.”

“We know he’ll go after Malfoy first, to get to Potter.”

“Exactly. And he won’t move openly against us until he has Mr. Malfoy in his power.”

“So, if we can keep Malfoy out of his power…”

“We have the advantage. We can plan our strategy, build our power, and move against Voldemort in our time. Not his.”

“ _If_ we can keep Malfoy out of his power.” Snape cocked his head curiously. “Do you really think we can do that?”

“We can certainly try, and for that, I need your help.”

“With what?”

“Keep an eye on our young men. Tell Minerva what we discussed today and enlist her help. I think it’s safe to say that it won’t be long before they lose patience with the fetters I’ve placed on them and make a bid for freedom. I don’t know which of them is more likely to break first, but where one goes, the other will surely follow.”

“Hmph,” Snape snorted. “I never thought I’d be glad that those two spend every night in the same bed, but at least we know where they both are.”

Dumbledore’s smile widened. “That’s the spirit, Severus. Look on the bright side.”

Snape’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. “And use every circumstance to your advantage?”

“Indeed.”

*** *** ***

Harry stared down at the roll of parchment under his hand and gnawed on the end of his quill. Professor Moody had assigned a wickedly complex essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Harry was barely halfway through it after two evenings of work. Beside him, Ron was struggling with the same assignment, while Hermione sat at the end of the table, somehow managing to look smug and virtuous while buried up to her eyebrows in her Arithmancy textbook. Draco sat at the other end of the table, also with a pile of books in front of him, but what he was working on Harry couldn’t say. He had done nothing but glare sullenly at a single page for the last half hour.

In between scribbling sentences on his parchment and scratching them out again, Harry shot surreptitious glances at Draco from behind the screen of his lashes, fairly itching to find out what was going on behind that scowl. Since their brief meeting in the entry hall that morning, he had not been able to snatch so much as a minute of private conversation with the Slytherin. He had hurried up to the Room of Requirement after supper, hoping to finally catch Draco alone, only to find Ginny and Neville there before him, seated in front of the fire, discussing rare species of carnivorous plants. By the time they left, Luna, Ron and Hermione had arrived, and Harry had no choice but to wait until they all dispersed for the night.

Luna, who had wandered the perimeter of the room for some time, gazing at things no one else could see, now approached the table and perched on a chair to Draco’s left.

“Are you well, Draco?” she asked, in her sweet, but distant way. “You’ve been out of sorts all day.”

Draco turned a dyspeptic look on her but said nothing.

Luna smiled dreamily at him and mused, “Maybe you’ve been bitten by a nargle. Their venom can cause severe disturbances in the spleen.” She leaned forward to study him with her slightly protuberant eyes. “Do you feel splenetic?”

“What?”

“An excess of black bile, perhaps? A tendency to melancholy? I can make you an excellent purgative to flush out the venom.”

“No. Thanks.” Draco’s voice was flat and colorless, but something almost like a smile twitched at his lips.

“I’ll be happy to make one, if you change your mind,” she assured him, as she slid out of her chair and resumed her perambulations.

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron across the table, then ducked his head to hide his grin, privately thanking Luna for her timely distraction and Draco for holding his temper.

Silence reigned for another few minutes, until the door abruptly swung open and Vincent Crabbe stumped into the room. He looked positively cheerful, his usually dull eyes alight and a grin on his face. Everyone looked around at his entrance. He brandished a sheet of parchment at them.

“Look at this!”

“What,” Ron retorted, “did Ickle Vincent learn to write his own name?”

“Very funny, Weasel-brains.” Crabbe strode over to the table and thrust the parchment under Ron’s nose. “Go on, then. Look.”

Ron looked, and his brows rose in disbelief. “A Hogsmeade weekend? Dumbledore’s actually letting us out of the castle?”

“I know,” Crabbe said, a note of wonder in his voice. “After what happened last term, I thought he’d never let us out.”

At this reference, however oblique, to Draco’s disappearance last spring, Harry shot a look at the other boy. He was startled to see Draco frozen in his chair, his expression hard and brittle, his eyes blank.

“Malfoy?” he ventured, but Draco gave no sign that he heard, and the others were in full flow, paying no attention to either of them.

“I was thinking about the news today. The attack on Azkaban,” Ron said.

“What’s that got to do with Hogsmeade?” Crabbe demanded.

Hermione answered him in the overly-patient tone she always used with the cloddish Slytherin. “It means the Death Eaters are bolder and more active. They’ve kept a low profile, since the failed attack on Hogwarts, but now they’re coming into the open again.”

“You think they’ll attack the school again?” Crabbe asked, nervously.

“I don’t know… maybe. In any case, it seems reckless to let students off the grounds with the threat from You-Know-Who growing every day.”

“Dumbledore must know more than we do, _or_ the _Daily Prophet_ ,” Ron objected. “Says here we have to get permission from our Heads of House to leave the grounds.” He looked suddenly worried. “You don’t suppose McGonagall would refuse to let us go, do you? Only, we’re over seventeen, so she can’t really stop us…”

“You wouldn’t want to go, if Professor McGonagall thought it was too dangerous,” Hermione said, reprovingly.

“I don’t care if it’s dangerous. I’ve got to get out of this place, or I’m going to go barmy. Snape’ll let me go,” Crabbe shot a hopeful look at his housemate, “won’t he?”

Draco was staring at the tabletop and did not respond to the other boy’s question.

“McGonagall’s not going to keep us here, either,” Ron assured Hermione. “She knows we can take care of ourselves. And they’ve got security wizards patrolling the streets of the village, just in case,” he added, tapping the parchment. “I haven’t had a butterbeer in ages! And I haven’t even seen Fred and George’s new shop! Mum said they were taking over Zonko’s. Wow… A Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes right on our doorstep…”

Draco suddenly lurched to his feet, cutting off the excited chatter around the table, and headed for the door. Four pairs of startled eyes watched him stride out of the room. As the door slammed behind him, Ron, Hermione and Vincent all turned to look at Harry.

“What’s up with Ferret?” Ron asked. “ _Has_ he been bitten by a nargle?”

Harry just shook his head and jumped to his feet. “Stay here.”

Out in the hallway, he found Draco a few yards from the door, just staring blankly at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Harry walked over and propped his shoulder against the woven image of a troll in a tutu.

When Draco did not acknowledge his presence, he said, “I thought I’d have to chase you all the way down to the dungeons.”

“I realized I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“What’s wrong? Why’d you run out?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, I do. Come on.” Catching Draco’s arm, he marched him down the hallway to an unused classroom. It was dark and musty, with desks pushed up against the back wall and no curtains on the tall windows, but it was private, and for their purposes, that was enough. Harry lit the candles in the wall sconces with his wand, put a locking spell on the door, then pocketed his wand and turned to confront his friend.

“Now, tell me what’s gotten your knickers in a twist.”

“Oh, nothing,” Malfoy shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just get to watch you lot skip off to Hogsmeade for a day of butterbeer and Wizard Wheezes, while I sit by myself in the dungeons, going—what was it Crabbe said?—completely barmy? I guess it’ll be a short trip, since I’ve already lost my mind and my name and my home and my family and my right to set foot outside this foul castle without a keeper to make sure I don’t hurt myself! So go have fun, Potter! Go play with your gaggle of Gryffindors, and leave me up in the belfry with the _bloody bats_!”

Harry listened to this, his mouth agape, until Draco got to the bats. Then he pulled himself together, grinned, and remarked, “Hogwarts doesn’t have a belfry.”

“I’m sure Dumbledore will find someplace equally appropriate to keep me.”

“Draco…”

“Don’t! Don’t… do that!” Malfoy snapped, sidestepping Harry’s attempt to reach for him. “I don’t want to be jollied and petted and… _babied!_ ”

Harry stopped dead, his mouth once more falling open and his hand outstretched but empty. After a startled moment, he asked, “Why are you angry with me?”

“I’m _not!_ Merlin’s Bloody Balls, Harry!” Draco clutched at his head with both hands, almost but not quite tearing at his immaculate hair. “I didn’t want to do this… didn’t want to shout at you like a lunatic… but you won’t just _leave it be!_ ”

“No, I won’t.” He took a step closer to the other boy. “Can I touch you? Please?”

Draco backed up a step. “If you insist on talking, we’ll talk, but keep your hands to yourself.”

“Okay.” Harry pointedly shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “Let’s start over. You’ve been upset since you got that letter this morning. What was in it?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out a somewhat crumpled envelope. He held it out to Harry without a word, and when the Gryffindor took it, turned sharply away. Harry examined the seal on the flap, just as Draco had done, then pulled out the heavy piece of parchment. It was stiff and resistant in his fingers, as if knowing he would not like what it had to say.

He started to read, but he had not made it through the first paragraph when fury rose in him in a hot, red tide, blurring his vision and almost obscuring the hateful words on the page. Lifting his fulminating glare to Draco, he demanded, “Are they serious? They’re taking the Manor?”

“That’s what it says,” Draco answered without turning.

“But… this is _rubbish!_ This business about you being incompetent… It’s a lie! They can’t disinherit you because of a _lie!_ ”

“Apparently they can.”

“Did you talk to Dumbledore about this? What did he say? Has he got a plan to… Oh, _bloody hell!_ ” he swore, as his eyes fell on the signature. The heat of his anger promptly congealed into a burning, acid lump in his stomach. “I can’t believe they still let that horrible, old _hag_ work at the Ministry!”

Draco finally turned back to face him, his arrogant Malfoy mask in place, but a wounded, frightened creature looking out of its eyes. “Dumbledore says he can’t help me. Or won’t. He says it’s to protect me from Fudge, and the Dark Lord, but…”

Something inside Harry broke at the terrible longing in his voice, and he reached out for him without thinking. Gathering him up in his arms, he murmured, “Oh, Dragon.”

Malfoy was leaning into the embrace, softening in spite of himself, when he heard the pet name on Harry’s lips and stiffened. Leaning back against the other boy’s circling arms, he eyed him through narrow lids and demanded, “What did you call me?”

“Uhhh…” Harry felt his face heat alarmingly. “Did I say that out loud?”

“You did.”

Harry couldn’t tell whether his prickly lover was outraged, horrified or amused at his lapse, so he braced himself and tried to brazen it out. “Well, it’s your name, isn’t it? Draco is Dragon in Latin—or Greek or one of those moldy, old languages that no one but a pureblood snob would ever use. So I’m really just… affirming your lofty status as wizarding nobility.”

“Hmph,” Draco snorted. He still did not relax into Harry’s arms or give him any hint as to his thoughts, but he had stopped swearing and growling and lashing out, which Harry took to be a good sign.

“And it suits you.” Harry freed a hand to stroke his gleaming hair. “Dragons are proud and fierce and—depending on who you talk to—beautiful.”

“Only nutters like Hagrid.”

“And me. And who else matters, really?”

Draco almost smiled at that. His lashes drooped seductively and his face warmed. “You’re a sentimental prat.”

“You’re a magnificent, silver dragon with adamant claws.” When the corner of Draco’s mouth lifted, Harry chuckled in triumph. “Isn’t that better than being a puffer fish?”

“I don’t know… I was getting used to the idea. Those poisonous spines are dead useful.”

“Now you’ve got armored scales,” Harry murmured, leaning in to brush the other boy’s lips with his own. “Fangs a foot long. Silver flames that will cook a man in his boots.”

“You do have a way with words, Potter.”

Harry just smiled and kissed him. It was a gentle and relatively chaste caress, but it started the golden power singing in his head and sparking before his eyes. Draco purred his approval and opened his mouth in a silent invitation, but Harry reluctantly broke off the kiss before it could get too heated. Gazing down into his lover’s upturned face through a haze of wizarding power, he saw that the mask had melted and the wounded look had faded from his winter eyes. He was still hurt, even frightened, but no longer frantic to escape. The wild creature had come tamely to his hand.

“Now talk to me, Dragon,” he said, softly, without loosening his hold on the smaller boy. “What did Dumbledore say about the letter?”

“He said that he won’t go to the Wizengamot to end his guardianship or save my inheritance.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would draw attention to me and force Fudge to move against me. Do something more drastic or damaging.”

“That makes sense.”

“I suppose.” The warmth drained from his face, leaving it drawn and sad. “I asked if I could go to the Manor, just once, before they take it.”

“He said no?” Draco nodded, his eyes sliding away from Harry’s. “I’m sorry. Is there anything at the Manor you really want?”

“I don’t know. Honestly. I just want to _see_ it again… walk through the rooms… maybe find one, little thing to remind me of home when it’s gone…” He ducked his head and pressed it hard into Harry’s shoulder. “I know you don’t get it, Harry, but that’s the only home I’ve ever had, and it’s just… gone. With everything that made me a Malfoy.”

“I get it.”

“You hate that I’m a Malfoy. You’ll be glad when I’m not anymore.”

“No.” Harry slipped a hand around his head and cradled it, then bent to murmur against his hair, “I hate your father for what he did to you. I hate that your mother wouldn’t fight to save you from him and from Voldemort. I hate seeing you hurt for them. But I understand it. They’re your parents.”

“Not anymore.”

“Of course they are. If you think you have to give up your name or your family for me…”

“ _They_ gave _me_ up.” He lifted his head, fixing his eyes on Harry. “Don’t you remember? In the Pensieve? My father said I’m not fit to carry the Malfoy name. My mother said…” He shook his head as if trying to banish the memory, then lowered it and settled it against Harry’s shoulder again. “It doesn’t matter. There are no Malfoys left, so the Ministry might as well take everything that belonged to them.”

“There’s one left,” Harry insisted, “the best of them. And some day, we’ll make the whole, bloody wizarding world recognize it. Even if we can’t get the Manor back.”

“I don’t need it. Any of it. I just wish I could see it one last time. Say goodbye.”

“Now who’s a sentimental prat?” Harry chided softly. After a quiet moment, he asked, “Why didn’t you want to tell me any of this? Is it because you thought I’d be happy about it?”

“No. I didn’t want you to get angry. Dumbledore warned me…” He broke off, suddenly unsure of how much to say.

Harry waited for him to finish, then prompted, “Warned you of what? That I’d overreact and go haring off to the Ministry to challenge Umbridge to a duel?”

“Something like that.”

“I will, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“It won’t.”

“Then I’ll go talk to Dumbledore, convince him to let you visit the Manor.”

“Don’t, Harry. If you really want to make me feel better… Do you remember when you said you’d stay here at Hogwarts, as long as I’m not allowed to leave?”

“Of course.”

“Did that include trips to Hogsmeade?”

“If that’s what you want. Draco.” The other boy lifted his head once more, and Harry cradled his scarred cheek with his palm. “Are you really that upset about missing a Hogsmeade weekend?”

“I’m upset about being a prisoner.”

“Well, I’m a prisoner, too. I can guarantee you that McGonagall won’t give me permission to leave the grounds, no matter how many extra security wizards they have patrolling the streets of Hogsmeade.”

“Dumbledore said you were confined to the castle grounds, too, but I just assumed you’d use your cloak to escape for a while. Run off with your friends. Breathe the free air of Hogsmeade.”

“You assumed wrong.” Harry grinned at him and dropped a quick kiss on his frowning lips. “Why would I need to breathe the free air of Hogsmeade when my reason for breathing at all is right here?”

That earned him an actual smile. “You really are a sentimental prat.”

“And you’re a wicked silver dragon.”

Draco tilted his head back and murmured, as his lips met Harry’s, “I can live with that.”

 

**_To be continued…_ **

 


	4. Trophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What starts out as a lovely weekend in Hogsmeade goes very wrong, and all Dumbledore's precautions are for naught.

****The weather had decided to smile on the students of Hogwarts for their day of freedom. After weeks of pounding rain, late Autumn sunshine made the castle glow as if freshly washed and burnished. Enormous, swollen clouds chased each other across a crystal-blue sky, running ahead of a stiff wind and throwing a patchwork of moving shade on the fading grass. Bundled up in cloaks and gloves and knit scarves in their House colors, the children hurried in smiling, laughing groups down the long carriageway toward the gates and the village beyond.

Ron cavorted across the grass like a colt let off its lead, his long legs carrying him well down the road, then back to Hermione’s side again in a few bounds. They stayed well back from a group of Ravenclaws, not wanting to hear what they were muttering to each other between fits of giggling. It might be nothing more momentous than what boy they were collectively pining for, but in their experience, every low-voiced exchange at Hogwarts always came back around to the same thing—Harry’s exploits—and they both wanted to be free of Harry’s concerns for one day.

They had loitered around the common room for an extra hour after breakfast, letting Seamus, Dean and the others trail out, before setting out themselves. Harry had waved them off, showing no sign of wanting to join them—with or without McGonagall’s permission—and Malfoy had been conspicuous by his absence. So they were alone as they approached the huge, wrought-iron gates that marked the edge of the grounds.

Madam Hooch was on duty at the gates, opening the wards to let students through and warning them to be vigilant while outside their protection. She sounded uncomfortably like Moody, and she looked odd in her sober, charcoal grey robes. Ron almost never saw her off the Quidditch pitch. He tended to think of her as part of the equipment, rather than a teacher who roamed the castle at will or wore anything other than flying gear.

She fixed the two Gryffindors with a squinty-eyed gaze. “Keep to the village streets,” she said in her clipped, tart way, “and be back an hour before sundown. All items purchased in the village are subject to inspection and confiscation, so don’t buy anything that bites, stings, ensorcels or explodes.”

“Yes, Madam Hooch,” Hermione said respectfully.

“And check in with your Head of House as soon as you return.”

“We will.”

“Off you go, then. Enjoy the weather.” She looked up at the clouds, then around at the air that seemed preternaturally clear, and added a trifle sadly. “Flying weather. Shame we don’t have a match today.”

Hermione smiled dutifully, but Ron seemed much struck by this. “Too right! It’s perfect weather for beating the pants off of Slytherin!”

“I thought you wanted a butterbeer,” Hermione said testily, catching his arm to pull him forward.

They felt the wards crawl on their skin as they stepped through the gates, then they were on the outer carriage road, hurrying down it. Around a sweeping curve, through a thick copse of trees that crowded up on either side of the road, down a long slope, and into the little valley that hid all but the tallest of the village’s rooftrees and chimney pots.

Ron took Hermione’s hand as they turned onto the main street. She shot him a surprised look from the corners of her eyes but did not draw away.

“Where to first?” he asked brightly. “It’s kind of early for a butterbeer.”

“Didn’t you want to visit the twins’ new shop?”

“Oh, yeah!” Ron enthused. “Let’s check it out!”

They hurried down the street in the direction of the now-defunct Zonko’s joke shop, past the post office and Honeydukes, only to find the shop still boarded up. A large, brightly-colored poster on one window announced the coming of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes of London, due to open before the Christmas holidays. But so far, the only sign of new ownership was a coat of purple paint on the door and a large pile of discarded wooden shelves, stacked outside the rear door.

Ron stared at the battered, old shelves glumly and kicked at the dirt in disappointment. “I’d’ve thought they’d try to get up and running for the new term. Who knows when we’ll get another Hogsmeade weekend, with You-Know-Who lurking behind every bush?”

“Hush, don’t talk like that.”

“Well, it’s true. We could be locked up through the Christmas hols, same way we were all Summer. I was looking forward to getting a bag of Canary Creams.”

“What for?” she asked suspiciously.

“Oh… you never know when they’ll come in handy.”

“Hmph.” She caught his hand again and tugged him toward the street. “Let’s go to the post office. I have a letter to send, and you can’t get into trouble there.”

“Yeah, all right.”

They strolled back down the street, in no particular hurry. Hogwarts students trailed in and out of every shop, moving in chattering groups, their faces bright with relief at the normalcy of the day. Ron and Hermione spotted Vincent Crabbe, with Maude Stimple on his arm, turning into Madam Puddifoots. They didn’t bother waving a greeting, since Maude didn’t approve of Vincent’s friends— _any_ of his friends, not just the sinister Draco Malfoy—and wouldn’t smile on an interruption by them. Then they reached the post office.

Ron reached out to open the door, but a sharp, urgent cry halted his movement.

“Ron! Hermione! Come quick!”

The call came from a little alley that ran between the post office and the hat shop next to it. Stepping together into the mouth of the alley, they saw Colin Creevey a dozen yards away. He was standing over an ominous bundle on the ground, bouncing with eagerness, waving to get their attention.

“Down here! Quick!”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a startled glance, then took off running toward the younger boy. He greeted them with a relieved cry.

“I didn’t know what to do! I just found her here, and I couldn’t leave her!”

They reached Colin and looked down, appalled, at the lump at his feet. It was Luna, her body unnaturally stiff, her limbs locked to her sides, staring helplessly up at them. Ron had only just enough time to register the warning in those wide, protruding eyes, then something struck him in the head and the world went black.

*** *** ***

Ron paced up the long, steep carriageway to the front of Hogwarts castle. The great front doors stood wide open, ready to welcome the students back from their day of freedom and fun in Hogsmeade. He did not so much as glance at them, or at any feature of the gothically beautiful castle, as he passed into the lofty entrance hall. He kept his eyes on the path he would take and his hand on the large, scruffy, grey rat in his pocket.

It would be so easy, he thought, as he started up the main staircase. Walk in, take what he needed, walk out. Smile at his friends—friends who would envy his state of utter peace and purpose, if they only knew of it. But they would not. They must not. The voice whispering in his head told him so, and he trusted the voice implicitly. So long as he listened to the voice and followed its instructions, he could do no wrong. All would be well.

He kept climbing in the same unfaltering rhythm. Past the first floor, where Madam Pomfrey bustled about her domain, mending the hurts of the less fortunate. Past the second floor and the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Past the third, fourth and fifth floors. Up and up, 'til he reached the seventh floor and the Gryffindor Tower.

He stopped in front of the portrait and grinned at the Fat Lady. She simpered for him and asked, "Password?"

" _Laughing Hyena._ ”

She giggled—a strange sound coming from so large and venerable a face—and swung open to let him inside.

Ron stepped into the common room, still without looking to either side. The voice told him that he was to climb the stairs to his dormitory and retrieve the necessary item immediately. He obeyed without hesitation.

"Ron?"

He took another step toward the circular staircase.

"What are you doing back so soon?"

 _Answer him_ , the voice whispered.

Ron stopped and turned, a sheepish smile on his face. Harry sat before the cold hearth, books spread all over a low table and nearby sofa, his hair standing up in a way that told Ron he'd been pulling on it in frustration. Poor Harry. Too bad he couldn't relax, let the worry go, let someone else decide what he should do, the way Ron had.

"Forgot my money," Ron said, rolling his eyes at his own stupidity. "I save every Knut for that pair of Quidditch gloves, then I go off without the money. How daft is that?”

"Oh." Harry frowned at him for a moment, then shrugged, letting his eyes slide back toward his books.

 _Say something_ , the voice prompted. _Don't let him suspect_.

Inspiration came to Ron, born on the current of peaceful certainty inside him. "Where's Malfoy?" he asked, all curious innocence.

Harry's frown darkened into a scowl. "Down at the Quidditch pitch."

"I thought you were going to spend the day with him."

"I can't. I have piles of homework to do, and Draco is in such a foul mood that he won't help me."

"Peeved that Dumbledore won't let him leave the grounds?"

"Peeved doesn't begin to describe it. I think he wanted to do some flying, shake off his sullens."

Inspiration struck again, and Ron said, lightly, "You should leave off studying and go practice with him. That'll make both of you easier to stand."

With that, he turned for the stairs again, letting the whisper in his head guide him upward in a dream of mindless content. He had done just as he should—allayed suspicion better even than the voice could guess—and gotten the last bit of information he needed. Now the voice would be pleased with him, and the peace inside him would go on forever.

The dormitory was unlocked. Harry's trunk stood open with a litter of parchment, pens, ink bottles and books all around it. Ron carefully closed the door behind him and bent over the trunk. He rifled it expertly, checking every corner, but did not find what he needed. Still serenely confident, he moved to the nightstand. Nothing. Then the bed.

There it was, folded neatly under Harry's pillow. Of course, Ron realized as he lifted the soft pad of silvery fabric, he should have looked here first. Harry always kept it under his pillow, ready to hand, so he could slip out to meet Malfoy any time the urge took him. Except today, when he had so much work to do and Malfoy was feeling so grumpy.

Tucking the Invisibility cloak under his arm, beneath his robe, Ron glanced in the mirror to be sure no unsightly bulges would betray him. Perfect. Stuffing his right hand into his pocket, he clasped the rat huddled there and heard the voice say, _Go, now._

He strolled back down the stairs again, waving to Harry as he went past. "Bye, Harry! See you at dinner!"

Harry only grunted from behind a large book.

Ron stepped through the portrait hole and retraced his steps to the entrance hall with the same steady, unruffled sense of purpose that had carried him this far. He passed out through the wide doors, but instead of taking the carriageway back down to the gates, he turned to his right and made his way around the castle, toward the Quidditch pitch.

He spotted Malfoy long before he reached the stands. The Slytherin was flying fast and high, a furious mote of black and flashing silver against the clear afternoon sky. Ron moved between two sets of bleachers and stopped just inside the pitch. Beside him, the bright hangings that shrouded the stands flapped gently in the wind. He plunged his hand into his pocket once more, slid his fingers around Scabbers' body and the wand tucked under it, and lifted them both out.

Malfoy turned abruptly, streaking toward Ron's end of the pitch at breathtaking speed. He looked as though he were about to crash into the goal hoops, but instead, he threaded an impossible path between them, then whipped up and around, flattened his body against his broomstick, and shot through the tallest ring.

Under normal circumstances, Ron would have gasped. Today, he simply smiled and let his hand fall straight at his side. His fingers opened, letting rat and wand drop to the grass at his feet. Before Draco had shed the momentum from his incredible stunt and swooped around in a more sedate turn to face Ron, the rat had scampered under the stands, dragging the wand in its mouth, safely hidden behind the hangings.

Ron lifted his right hand in a wave, grinning up at his suicidal friend. His left arm remained tightly clamped to his side, holding the cloak against his ribs.

"Are you trying to break your neck?" Ron shouted, as Malfoy came into range.

"Maybe."

Malfoy still looked as though he'd like to strangle someone, but Ron could see the beneficial effects of hard flying in the flush of color in his cheeks and the smug light in his eyes. Another turn around the pitch would have him smirking and sniping like his old self. Too bad they didn't have time for that.

The Slytherin climbed gracefully off his broomstick, automatically lifting a hand to straighten his hair.

"Give it up," Ron quipped. "You look like you stuck your head into a hurricane."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I'll conjure one up for _you_ to play with, Weasel." He swung his broomstick up to his shoulder and peeled the heavy, gauntleted glove off his right hand—just the sort of glove he had meant to buy for himself in Hogsmeade today, Ron mused, perfect for protecting the hands from friction burns and blisters. "Why aren't you playing footsie with Granger at the Three Broomsticks?"

Ron shrugged. "I got bored. Thought I'd come see what you and Harry are up to."

A telltale ripple in the fabric behind Draco's shoulder distracted Ron, so he missed the other boy's answer. His eyes watched, with distant curiosity, as a small, furtive, suspiciously rodent-like figure in patched robes flung aside the hangings and advanced on Malfoy, wand raised.

"What's the matter with you?" Draco demanded, turning to look behind him.

" _Stupefy!_ " Wormtail hissed.

Yellow sparks spat from his wand. Draco crumpled to the ground, his broomstick still clutched in his crystalline hand. Ron stared down at him in what would have been bafflement, had he been capable of feeling anything of the sort.

"The cloak," Wormtail snapped, his ratty eyes darting about fearfully.

Ron obediently pulled the invisibility cloak from under his robe and offered it to Wormtail. The Death Eater snatched it from his hand and flung it open with a snap. Thin, silvery folds drifted down to cover Malfoy. Suddenly, the Slytherin was not there.

"Stay where you are," Wormtail said, then he ducked under the cloak.

A moment later, he emerged with Malfoy's wand, which he stuffed in his pocket along with a few things Ron recognized as the other boy's possessions. Wormtail shot him a nervous, slanty-eyed look, then smiled to show his yellow rat's teeth. "When I pick him up, you make sure the cloak covers us both. Then do as you’re told."

Ron nodded. He waited for Wormtail to hoist Malfoy's slight body over his shoulder, then he carefully adjusted the folds of the invisibility cloak to hide them both. When Wormtail and Malfoy were reduced to the sound of heavy breathing and the musty smell of rodent fur, Ron began walking toward the gates.

Around the castle, down the drive, and he saw Snape standing at the gates, looking surly and suspicious. Reaching into his pocket to clutch the silver Sickles he’d tucked there that morning, he strode confidently up to the gates. Snape raked him with his cold gaze, then flicked it to either side, as if hunting for a sign of someone else lurking at his shoulder. Perhaps he suspected Ron of smuggling Harry out of the grounds under his cloak. Little did he know…

“Remembered your own head this time, did you, Weasley?”

Ron assumed the downcast, rather sullen look he usually wore in Snape’s presence and lifted the handful of silver as proof of his errand. He made a show of sloping through the gates under Snape’s eye, but paused just as he stood astride the wards to fumble the coins back into his pocket. Snape watched this with a disdainful smile, utterly oblivious to the invisible Death Eater who scurried past Ron with his precious burden.

Safely outside the wards, with Wormtail shuffling along beside him, Ron stayed on the road until the sweeping curve had taken him out of sight of the gates. Then Wormtail muttered, “Turn here, into the trees.”

Ron obeyed, stepping off the road and into the dense copse of trees. He wove a path through them, following Wormtail’s instructions, until he reached a small clearing at the center of the copse and abruptly halted. Wormtail came panting and wheezing up behind him. With a shrug of his stooped shoulders, he tossed Malfoy to the ground and disentangled them both from the cloak. Ron looked dispassionately down at his friend, then up at the wizard who had captured him, then around at the trees.

As if conjured by his eyes, black figures materialized around the clearing, stepping from between the looming trunks to cluster around the three new arrivals. A woman leapt eagerly forward, her wand in her hand, and fairly pounced on Malfoy’s still figure. Ron recognized her wild black hair, gaunt face and ferocious, heavy-lidded eyes, but in his current state, he couldn’t be troubled to come up with her name. He watched her prod Malfoy with her foot, laughing derisively, then wave her wand at him.

" _Rennervate!_ " she snarled.

Malfoy stirred and opened his eyes. He looked up at the tall woman, his eyes going wide with fear. As Ron watched, bemused, Draco pushed himself onto his elbows and tried to scramble back, away from the woman looming over him. His glazed, panic-stricken eyes did not move to take in the other figures around him. They remained glued to the woman's face, until he bumped into someone's leg and realized that his escape was cut off.

"Auntie Bella," he whispered through bloodless lips.

"Yes, little worm, it's your dear Auntie, come to take you back to Mummy."

Draco reacted instantly, whipping up his adamant hand to point at her, but Bella's wand was already aimed at his chest.

" _Petrificus Totalus!_ "

Her wand spat magic at Draco, and he went completely rigid. Only his eyes still lived, and they followed his aunt's movements with unguarded horror. She searched Draco's clothing, then, when she found nothing in his pockets, rounded on Wormtail.

“His wand, rat! Where is it?!”

“I will give it to the Master,” Wormtail whined, cringing away from her. “He put the boy’s capture in my hands, and I will deliver…”

"Silence, rodent. You'll do as you're told, and nothing more." She pointed at Wormtail's silver hand. "Is that monstrosity stronger than adamant?"

"No." Wormtail whipped his hand behind his back, frightened by her sudden interest in him. "Nothing is."

"Hmph. We'll just see. Come, Wormtail. Help me." She turned to another Death Eater. "And you, Macnair."

"Hadn't you better leave it for the Master to do?" a third Death Eater asked.

"Leave it?" Bella sneered, then she laughed wildly. “Of course I won't _leave it!_ Don't be such a child, Dolph. It's only a hand. How much damage can it do?"

"Why don't you ask Lucius?" Dolph growled.

"Lucius was an arrogant fool who couldn't see past the end of his nose. _I_ am the Dark Lord's most trusted servant. _I_ will carry out his orders to the letter."

She snapped her fingers and pointed to a spot just beside her. "There, Wormtail. When I release his arm from the binding spell, you will pin his hand to the ground. If he moves it, you will die exactly one second after I finish with him. You, Macnair, will hold his arm. And remember, he can crush your puny head like an overripe melon with those pretty fingers of his.”

“Just stun him,” Macnair grumbled, as he stepped over Draco and took up his post at the boy's shoulder. “He can’t do magic if he’s unconscious.”

“He can’t feel anything, either,” Bella retorted, with a wolfish grin, “and this needs to hurt.”

To the silent, watching figures, she snapped, “Stand clear! He may be able to manage non-verbal spells!”

The Death Eaters drew off to either side, now eyeing Malfoy’s stiff figure nervously, leaving a wide, empty swathe of trees to his left. Ron gazed down at Malfoy through the mist that shrouded his senses, wondering why his friend had a look of such murderous rage in his eyes. What was there to be angry about? Or afraid? He, Ron, had followed instructions, so everything would be fine.

"Now!" Bella cried, as she leveled her wand.

Once again, magic shot from the wand to strike Draco, but this time it was aimed at his arm. The instant he could move, Draco whipped his wrist out of Wormtail's grasp and reached for the Death Eater's throat. Wormtail ducked and rolled, carrying him safely out of Draco's reach. Draco sent a spell burning from his crystalline finger toward Macnair’s head, but the Death Eater was ready for him. He sidestepped the spell and stamped a foot down on Draco’s forearm, pinning it to the ground. Draco’s second spell flew harmlessly into the trees. At that moment, Wormtail scrambled back into the fray to lock silver fingers around adamant.

Howling orders and imprecations at the top of her lungs, Bella once again raised her wand, and Ron saw that it now had a blade of glittering light at the end of it. She stooped and hacked. Draco screamed.

Except, it wasn’t Draco screaming. Draco was in a full body bind and couldn't do so much as whimper. But Ron distinctly heard a scream—a terrible, animal howl of pain and rage. And as he watched the blade fall again, watched Bellatrix Lestrange grab Draco's adamant hand and twist it grotesquely, he drew in a great, sobbing breath and screamed again.

" _No! No! You can't!_ "

The Imperius Curse broke, the shell of peace and acceptance shattered. Ron Weasley found himself standing standing in a shaded clearing, surrounded by faceless figures in black robes, watching a madwoman chop Draco's arm off and laugh as she did it. Fury burned through his body like a curse, and he flung himself across the clearing, toward the knot of Death Eaters and the hideous thing they were doing to his friend. Hands grabbed him, wrestled with him, while he fought and flailed and yelled, “ _Stop! Draco!_ "

"Silence that brat,” Bella snarled.

Dolph—and in his newly-awakened state, Ron knew that it must be Bellatrix's husband, Rodolphus—stepped menacingly toward him, wand raised. Ron stumbled back, tearing free of the clutching hands, and fell against a tree trunk. He lifted his head to stare up at Rodolphus’ pale face inside its deep hood. The man appeared to have black holes for eyes.

A crow of triumph from Bellatrix made Ron tear his eyes away from Dolph and turn them on her again. She stepped back from Draco’s body, casually flicking the blade from her wand in a shower of sparks. Beside her, Wormtail staggered to his feet, cradling something bright and beautiful across his hands. He caught up the hem of his robe and started to wipe at it, but the instant Bellatrix saw what he was doing, she struck him hard in the side of the head.

Snatching the trophy from his grasp, she snarled, “Imbecile!"

"I was just cleaning…"

"I don't want it clean, you infernal rodent!"

Then she held it up. Ron took one look at the thing shining in her hand, bowed his head, and vomited into the grass. Bella's laughter, mixed with the deeper chuckles of Rodolphus, Macnair and the others, rang sickeningly in his ears.

"Lovely," she cooed. "I wonder if Potter will react the same way as his blood traitor friend?”

"Harry will kill you," Ron gasped, his stomach heaving again and his mouth filling with the bitter taste of despair. “And if he doesn’t, _I will!_ ”

"I am _so_ hoping he tries," Bella retorted. Then she flicked an dismissive hand in Ron's direction. "Put him with the others."

Rodolphus hoisted Ron away from the support of the tree, giving him a shove to start him moving toward the edge of the clearing. As he stumbled into the trees, dropping to his knees at the Death Eater's command, he saw that he was not alone. His friends and fellow students were sprawled all around him, lying and sitting, awake and unconscious, trussed up in magical bonds like so many smoked hams. He heard Bellatrix shouting more orders and twisted around to peer back into the clearing, even as Rodolphus fired a binding hex at him and ropes looped around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He saw Bellatrix flick her wand at Malfoy, and his body rose several feet in the air. Draco's left arm, the only part of him not frozen by Bella's spell, hung limp from his shoulder. Blood dripped steadily from his empty sleeve.

Ron groaned and turned his head away, only to find himself staring into a familiar pair of brown eyes, now swimming in tears. Hermione could say nothing, but the look she gave him was enough. Ron knew exactly what she was thinking, exactly what he had done, and exactly how much trouble he had started. For all of them, but especially for Harry.

"I'm sorry," he croaked, and to his horror, the tears began to spill from Hermione's eyes. “I’m so sorry!”

“Shut it, you,” Rodolphus snarled, and the world went black again.

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	5. Spoils of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Ron are imprisoned by Voldemort, and the Dark Lord begins to implement his plan.

****Ron knelt in a pile of rotting straw, clutching the iron bars of his cage so tightly that his knuckles whitened, and straining to see through the shifting wall of black-robed figures that blocked his view. They stood in a loose circle, their bodies seeming to waver in the torchlight, turned inward to face the stone table that dominated the dungeon chamber. Some of them held torches aloft. Others held wands. All of them kept their eyes on the table, the boy bound to its top, and the trio of wizards standing at its foot. They ignored the caged boy on the far side of the room.

The tallest of them, who stood at the foot of the table, raised his arms for silence. The torchlight gleamed on his bloodless, ghost-white arms without lending them any color, and the sight of them made Ron shiver in fear. With a flick of spider-like fingers, he brushed back his hood to expose a face like a bleached skull, with slitted nostrils and eyes that seemed to glow red in the uncertain light.

His dreadful gaze turned downward, to the boy who lay on the table, and a parody of a smile stretched his mouth. Lord Voldemort was pleased.

"Excellent work, Wormtail," he purred, fixing his smile on the smaller of the two wizards flanking him. “You have done well.”

Wormtail bowed until it seemed as if his nose would touch his knees, and he spoke in a fawning voice. “Thank you, Master.”

“Where is his wand?”

Bellatrix Lestrange, who stood to Voldemort’s left, pushed back her hood and stretched out a skeletal hand, clutching Malfoy’s wand in it. “I have it, Lord! I brought it, as you commanded!”

Voldemort took the wand, examined it for a moment, then slid it into his own pocket. “And the hand?”

“Here, my Lord.”

Again, Bellatrix held out her prize, this one wrapped in black fabric. Voldemort flipped open its wrappings without taking it from her. He gazed down at the perfect replica of a human hand, his snake-like features unreadable, then reached over to trail a long, white finger down the smooth crystal. It came away smeared with blood.

“So this is Dumbledore’s masterpiece?” His lipless mouth twisted with contempt, as he lifted the adamant hand to catch the torchlight. “This? _This_ is what the old fool uses to buy loyalty? Or was Lucius right? Is it bewitched to bind this creature to his new masters?”

It was astoundingly beautiful, even with the missing fingers and the gore spattering it. Every hooded head around the table followed it, as the Dark Lord flourished it like an oversized wand. No magic came from the crystalline fingers. His mocking laughter made them cringe, but still their eyes seemed to follow the glittering, irresistible hand.

“You said it was a wand.”

“It is, Lord,” Bellatrix assured him. “I saw him kill Lucius with it.”

“No longer,” Voldemort said dismissively, “and of no use to him, now.” Handingit to Bellatrix, he said, “Destroy it.”

She fairly shuddered with delight, as the Dark Lord set the piece of sculpture in her outstretched palm.

“You can’t destroy adamant,” one of the hooded figures said, “can you?”

“It is already broken,” Voldemort replied, with a contemptuous flick of his fingers. “If it were whole and truly functioned as a wand, I might find a use for it, but as it is… I know how you like to break things, my dear Bella.”

Bellatrix gave a cackle of wild, gleeful laughter and, without warning, brought the hand smashing down on the edge of the table. Adamant met stone with a tremendous crack and slivers of stone flew through the air. One Death Eater flinched, his hand coming up too late to protect to his face. But when Bellatrix lifted the hand again, it was not even scratched.

She stared at the undamaged hand for a disbelieving moment, then suddenly erupted in a blind rage. Hair and robes flying, her shrieks and howls filling the dungeon chamber, she hurled the hand at the floor, the table, the walls, leaving gouges in every stone surface it touched and sending half of the Death Eaters cringing away from her in alarm. It was Voldemort’s cold laughter that finally brought her back to herself. She stopped dead, Draco’s adamant hand clutched in both of her own, poised above her head, about to come crashing down on Wormtail’s unprotected skull.

“Your games are amusing, Bella, but they waste my time. Destroy the thing and be done with it.”

For one breathless moment, it seemed that Bellatrix might demand just _how_ her master expected her to do this. But instead, she brandished her wand and fired a tremendous curse into the palm of the adamant hand. Power ricocheted through the room. Everyone, with the exception of Voldemort and Bellatrix herself, cowered away from the explosion of heat and magic. The hand seemed to disappear in a flare of red flame. And Bellatrix was left standing, smiling in triumph, with only her wand in her hand.

She returned to her place at Voldemort’s side, radiating satisfaction and shivering with pleasure when he cast her an approving look. No one—not Bella, the other Death Eaters, Voldemort or even the boy bound to the table among them—noticed the perfect, gleaming, diamond-hued hand lying in the dirty straw by the wall, hidden in shadow, only a foot or two from Ron’s cramped, iron cage.

Voldemort gazed down at his prize. The boy on the table did not move or speak, gave no sign that he was aware of the Dark Lord’s snake-like eyes on him. “Thanks to Wormtail, we have what we need. It remains only to determine when the traitor last gave himself to Potter.”

Bellatrix flung out a contemptuous hand toward the prisoner and demanded, in a scathing tone, "What use is that worm to us, Lord? And what does it matter when he last crawled on his belly for Potter?" She spat onto the floor, narrowly missing the hem of another Death Eater's robes. "He is filth. Let me kill him now, Lord, slowly."

Another of the anonymous, hooded figures stirred restlessly, and Ron wondered if one of the other Death Eaters meant to interfere, but Voldemort spoke first.

"I need him alive, Bella. Make him squirm, if you like, but do not damage him."

Bella grinned ferociously. Raising her wand, she hissed, " _Crucio!_ "

"No!" Ron howled, but he was drowned out by a scream of raw pain.

The figure on the table, visible as no more than a flash of silver-blond hair and black robes between the watching Death Eaters, thrashed in his magical bonds, wracked by the agony of the curse but unable to free himself from the spell that pinned him to the stone. Ron heard him scream again and again, his voice growing rougher with each cry, and he cried out in answer but knew that his friend could not hear him. As one Death Eater shifted his ground, Ron saw a white hand, pinned by the wrist to the table, straining upward, twisted into a grotesque claw by unimaginable pain. As he stared at it in tearful disbelief, the bright head resting on the table turned suddenly in his direction, and grey eyes opened to gaze blindly at him.

Ron gasped, as if a centaur had kicked him in the chest, then he threw himself against the bars of his cage, reaching between them until his shoulder popped and his muscles burned with the effort. "Ferret!" he cried, still trying desperately to reach across the dozen or more feet that separated them, "Ferret, _no!!_ "

"Enough," Voldemort said, and Bellatrix obediently jabbed her wand at her prisoner. His screams ceased. His body fell still except for the heaving of his chest as he gasped for breath. Ron collapsed against the bars, shaking as hard as the boy being tortured, his face slick with tears.

Voldemort lifted his own wand, and an expectant silence fell over the waiting circle of black figures. The Dark Lord smiled down at Draco Malfoy, gloating triumph writ large on his skull-like face, but the words he spoke were for Bellatrix. "You mustn't play too roughly with your little worm just yet, Bella. I have need of him."

"Potter will come for him, whether he lives or dies, Lord."

"Indeed. And when he comes, he will find his creature's body broken, his spirit fled in terror, but that is not why I sent for him."

Bella frowned at the Dark Lord in confusion, her mad eyes full of doubt. "But the weapon you seek… is it not the boy? The one Potter loves? Is that not why you sent Wormtail for him?"

"This?" Voldemort jeered, flicking his pale fingers at Draco. "This blood traitor? This catamite? No, he is but the means to my ultimate end. The one who will provide my weapon and be destroyed in the process. For the weapon I seek is a thousand-fold more powerful than _this_." The gloating in his face deepened, making Ron shiver with dread. "I need more than love to defeat my enemies. I need blood. Harry Potter's blood."

Bringing one hand down in a sweeping gesture, Voldemort spread his fingers wide and laid his palm flat on Draco's stomach. Glowing red eyes locked with wide, frightened grey ones. "When I am done, I will have Harry Potter's child in my keeping and victory in my grasp. And you… you will have pain and blood and death, just as my dear Bella wishes. Maybe you will live long enough to see your lover's face again and tell him how your body betrayed him in the end. Or maybe Auntie Bella will be merciful and kill you before he comes. Either way, the child will be mine, and Potter will be finished."

"No," Draco croaked, his voice rough with screaming.

A few of the Death Eaters laughed at his ridiculous protest, and Voldemort smiled pityingly, but Draco did not drop his gaze or back down from the palpable evil surrounding him. Setting his teeth against his own fear, he said, clearly, "It won't be Harry's child."

Fury lashed out of Voldemort like a whip, making Wormtail and Bellatrix cower away. The hand on Draco's stomach curled into a claw, and Ron heard fabric tearing as his grip tightened. " _What?_ " the Dark Lord hissed.

"Harry had me last night," Draco went on, his voice now audibly shaking, "but he wasn't the only one."

"He lies, Master," Wormtail whined, tugging on Voldemort's cloak.

"I'm the whore of Hogwarts. You'll find seed in me to make your baby, but there's no telling whose it will be."

"He lies!" Wormtail leveled a silver finger at Draco, whining, “I questioned all the prisoners, got the truth from them. No one else would touch the boy, even if he allowed it. The filthy blood traitor is lying to save his lover from your vengeance."

"And so might you be lying, Wormtail," Voldemort purred dangerously, "to save a hide far more dear to you than any lover's. But Lord Voldemort will always have the truth. Look in my eyes and tell me again how you questioned the prisoners. _Look at me._ "

Wormtail obeyed, fixing his gaze stoutly to his master's and repeating his assurance that no one at Hogwarts would sully his hands by touching the traitor Malfoy—no one but the besotted Harry Potter. It was clear to Ron from the expression on Voldemort's face that Wormtail was telling the truth, not that Ron needed Legilimency to tell him that Draco had not been shagging other boys. He knew, better than anyone, how utterly loyal Malfoy was to Harry and how completely faithful. If Voldemort could, in fact, conceive a child in Draco's body, that child would be Harry's. The only question was what Voldemort believed and what he would do to Malfoy now.

Ron's answer came when Voldemort turned once more to Draco. With one twitch of his wand, he banished Draco’s clothing, leaving him stark naked on the freezing stone tabletop. Then he spread a bone-white hand on the boy’s stomach and raised his wand once more.

Power gathered visibly around him. The Death Eaters edged nervously back from the stone table. When it seemed the tension and smoldering magic in the dungeon would set the filthy straw aflame, the Dark Lord spoke. His voice echoed eerily off the stone walls and stirred the short hairs on Ron's neck, the single word rolling like a tremendous wave through the thick air.

" _Fecundio!_ "

The power seemed to flow into Voldemort's hand, then down into Draco's body. The boy lying spread-eagled on the great table gave a tearing cry. His back arched and his throat contracted, as he choked on another cry. Then he collapsed, going frighteningly limp, and his head rolled brokenly to one side so that Ron could see his ashen face.

"Ferret," Ron whispered.

The pale lashes did not stir, but tears pulsed slowly from beneath them to paint streaks the color of torchlight down Malfoy's cheeks.

"Ferret, please."

Voldemort gazed down at his handiwork with evident satisfaction as he tucked his wand into his robe. "It is done."

"How long till we take the child, Lord?" Bella asked.

"Two days, perhaps three. The spell is not precise. Come." With a peremptory sweep of his arm, he summoned his servants and stalked from the dungeon.

The Death Eaters followed, all except one. A single hooded, black-robed figure remained standing by the table, still and silent, as the others trailed out. Ron guessed that it was a woman from its willowy stature and the delicate white hands visible in the wide sleeves. When she was alone in the dungeon with the two boys, she drew nearer to the table and lifted one hand to rest on Draco's bright hair.

"Rest now," she murmured, her voice tantalizingly familiar to Ron. "I'll bring you something to eat."

Draco did not open his eyes or seem to hear her soft words, and after a moment of silence, she turned away from him to drift out the door.

*** *** ***

Harry leaned back in his chair and stretched until his joints popped, then he ran a hand through his hair and yawned. He had been studying all day—first in the common room, then here in the library, after Seamus' noisy return from Hogsmeade had driven him out of the Gryffindor tower—and he was ravenously hungry. A glance at his watch told him that his stomach was in the right of it. If he didn't move, he'd miss dinner, just as he had lunch.

Scraping all his books and papers into some kind of order, Harry left them on the table, knowing that no one would disturb them while he was gone. The Seventh Years had special privileges when it came to study space, what with N.E.W.T.s approaching, and Harry had more than most. No one would dare evict him.

He was hurriedly rolling his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay into something like order, when Madam Pince came rushing back through the shelves, nearly colliding with a Second Year Slytherin in her haste. She looked less dyspeptic than usual, but none too happy, and the glance she cast about the crowded room reminded Harry of the way Dudley's teachers used to look at him—helpless and appalled.

Turning for the nearest table full of students, she bent over them and whispered something. The students stared back at her, bewildered, until she snapped, "Go on! Headmaster's orders!" They scattered, and she moved on to the next table.

Harry stood rooted to the spot, watching her erratic progress about the library and the sudden exodus of muttering students, feeling a hard lump of dread form in his stomach. Finally, Madam Pince reached him. She shot him a harried glance and said, "All students are to return to their common rooms, Potter. No exceptions."

He nodded numbly and started for the door behind a whispering knot of young Ravenclaws. So distracted was he by Madam Pince's strange behavior and his own premonition of danger that he still carried his essay, half-rolled but wholly forgotten, in his hand. Out in the hallway, whispers burst forth into full-blown shouts, as the students tried to make sense of this summons. Fear—and bitter experience—told them that Hogwarts was once more in deep trouble. And more than one of them stopped dead in the corridor to stare at Harry as he strode by them.

"What's up, Potter?" Ernie Macmillan called. "What's got up Dumbledore's nose this time?"

Harry did not break stride as he called over his shoulder, "I don't know any more than you do."

Ernie gave a disbelieving crack of laughter and waved him away. "Sure, sure, tell me another one!"

Harry picked up his pace until he was running down the long, echoing hallway, his feet sliding on marble when he turned a corner. He met up with Dennis Creevey on the stairs. Dennis grabbed his arm and shrieked, in his penetrating voice, "What is it, Harry? What's wrong? Why are they sending us all to our common rooms?"

Harry groaned. "Why does everyone assume that I know what's going on? I've been studying in the library all afternoon.”

"I was just having my dinner," Dennis said, worriedly. "Hardly anyone was there. Have you seen Colin?"

"He wasn't in the library," Harry answered, dryly.

"He said he was going into Hogsmeade. I suppose he could have eaten there…"

Hogsmeade. Harry felt his stomach drop toward his boots, and he lengthened his stride to take three stairs in a bound. Hogsmeade was where Ron and Hermione had gone, where Neville, Ginny, Colin, any number of his friends had gone. And Hogsmeade was the place where Draco had disappeared less than a year ago, snatched out from under Harry's nose by his parents and Voldemort. Harry didn't like to think about that, but it sat like a half-healed wound in the back of his mind, flaring with pain every time he touched it.

Hogsmeade. Sometimes, like now, he hated the sound of that name.

They reached the portrait hole and climbed hastily through it, to find most of Gryffindor House there before them. Professor McGonagall stood just inside the portrait hole, clutching a roll of parchment and a quill. At the sound of their entrance, she turned. Her face broke out in a relieved smile.

"Potter! Creevey! Did you see anyone else in the hallways?"

"No, Professor," Dennis answered breathlessly.

"Well. I'm glad you're here." Straightening her hat, she peered around the room at the mass of pale, worried faces confronting her and frowned. "The ghosts are rounding up stragglers, but we should get started without them."

"Get started with _what?_ " Lavender asked.

"Making a list of those missing. We'll go by dormitory, beginning with the First Year boys."

By the time they had made it halfway through the process, Harry already knew what the outcome would be. Ron and Hermione were missing. So were Ginny, Neville and Colin. Two younger students, originally placed on the list by their classmates, tumbled through the portrait hole with a ghost in pursuit, but Harry's friends did not return.

As he stood there, watching McGonagall write their names on her parchment roll, Harry could only close his eyes and hurt. But beneath the pain was a solid, warm, saving core of gratitude that Draco's name would not be on that list. Dumbledore had anticipated the worst and kept Draco safe. He could face any threat and overcome it, so long as Draco was safe.

"Very well," McGonagall said, rolling up her parchment, "that seems to be everyone." The entire roomful of Gryffindors stared at her, expectantly, while she gazed back at them with regret plain in her face. When she cleared her throat, several of the students jumped.

"The Headmaster has instructed me to tell you everything that we know, so you may be prepared for whatever comes.”

A frisson of alarm went through the crowd, and several people instinctively looked at Harry as the usual source of trouble.

“Unfortunately, there is little enough to tell. Several of your classmates,” here McGonagall lifted the scroll significantly, “have disappeared, failing to return to Hogwarts as expected and nowhere to be found in Hogsmeade. It may be nothing, but in light of what has happened in the last year, we cannot afford to treat it as nothing. We must assume that Hogwarts is once more under attack and our students have been taken.”

A frightened hum of noise met this announcement.

“Excuse me, Professor,” Parvati asked, nervously, "but is… is it You-Know-Who?"

"We don’t know, Miss Patil, but we are proceeding on that assumption.”

"What about my _brother?_ " Dennis wailed, setting off another wave of whispers and low cries all around him.

"We will find your brother," McGonagall said, sternly, quelling the noise. "We will find them all, and we will bring them back to Hogwarts. But you must prepare for what may come. You are not children anymore, not after the battles you have fought within these very grounds, and you know that we are at war.

"The disappearance of Hogwarts students may not be part of that war. But the last time a student vanished from this castle, he ended up in Voldemort's hands, and had he not been blessed with more than his share of resourcefulness and luck… well, let's just say that you would all be a good deal better acquainted with the reality of war than you are now."

Harry's stomach clenched, and he stared hard at his own toes to avoid the eyes of his housemates. _Draco is safe_ , he told himself doggedly. _Draco is safe, and we'll find the others. This isn't like before._

"Until we do learn what has become of your classmates, none of you will be allowed to leave the grounds for any reason. Hogsmeade, obviously, is off limits. Students will leave the castle only with a faculty member to escort them…"

A loud knock on the portrait brought McGonagall's head around sharply. She nodded for Harry, who stood closest, to open it while she continued listing Dumbledore's restrictions to the stunned Gryffindors. Harry pushed the portrait open to find Professor Sprout standing outside. She held a sheaf of parchment in her hands and wore a troubled frown on her face.

"Next week's Quidditch match is postponed until further notice." McGonagall was still talking as Professor Sprout stepped up beside her and tugged on her sleeve. She broke off to look at the scrap of parchment the other witch shoved into her hand.

No one spoke or moved for a long, terrible minute. Then McGonagall looked up, and Harry could have sworn that she was shaking.

"Professor?" Parvati ventured.

"That's all for now. You're to stay in the common room and dormitories for the rest of the evening. The house-elves will bring up supper for those of you who missed it in the Hall."

As she turned toward the portrait hole with Sprout beside her, she glanced up and caught Harry's eye. Her head twitched in an unmistakable signal.

Harry swallowed convulsively and, his stomach now somewhere down near his boots, followed her out of the room. In the cool dimness of the hallway, she turned to him, abruptly shoving the bit of parchment at him with unsteady hands. It was a list of names: Luna Lovegood, Padma Patil, Justin Finch-Fletchley, a couple of younger Hufflepuffs he only knew by sight; and there, below the others, separated by a stretch of creamy, blank parchment, was the impossible name. The one that ripped his heart out and left him dying on the cold marble floor. Draco Malfoy.

Harry stared at the simple letters in utter shock, his own hands now shaking far more violently than McGonagall's. He couldn't shift his eyes from the page, couldn't force enough air out of his lungs to speak, couldn’t begin to absorb the magnitude of what he saw. In the grip of his horror and denial, he did not hear McGonagall approach.

"Potter," she said, very softly, bringing his raw, desperate gaze to her face. "Did Malfoy leave the grounds today?"

The import of her question slowly penetrated his brain and he shook his head.

"Are you sure? He was very angry with Dumbledore, maybe angry enough to…"

"No," Harry croaked, his throat contracting painfully around the words. "He knows how important it is."

"All right, then, is there a chance he's still here, but he's hiding? To frighten us?"

"He wouldn't do that to me," Harry said with complete conviction.

Sprout and McGonagall exchanged a grim look.

"Draco wouldn't scare me like this!" Harry shouted. "Even to get back at Dumbledore! He knows how much it would… Oh!”

Under the startled eyes of the teachers, he took off down the hallway at a run, leaving the two women to scramble after him. He sprinted the length of the corridor and skidded to a stop in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

“Potter! What are you doing?!”

“I know where he is!” he called. Closing his eyes, Harry pictured the private room he reserved for his nights with Draco and walked three times back and forth along the wall. When he opened his eyes again, McGonagall and Sprout were standing at his shoulder, staring at the door that had appeared in the wall.

“What in Merlin’s name…” Sprout murmured.

“The Room of Requirement. Draco and I study here every night. If he wanted me to find him, this is where he’d come.” Shooting McGonagall a look wild with hope, Harry wrenched the door open.

The room was empty. All three of them stood on the threshold, staring, visibly willing Draco Malfoy to appear in the room, but he did not. Harry felt his shoulders sag. He turned away without bothering to shut the door. McGonagall followed him to the far side of the corridor and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Is there any other place he might be? _Think_ , Potter.”

Harry shook his head.

She sighed and turned to meet Professor Sprout’s worried eyes. “That leaves only one alternative."

"Someone came onto the grounds and took him," Sprout said darkly.

"But the wards!” Harry protested. “The people everywhere! How could they even get _on_ the grounds, much less kidnap Draco without anyone seeing them?"

"Perhaps they didn't have to get onto the grounds. Perhaps they lured him through the wards with a ruse," McGonagall suggested.

"Or used someone inside the castle to reach him," Sprout amended.

Harry gaped at them both in horror. "Someone at Hogwarts?"

Sprout gave him a sideways quirk of a smile. "Malfoy is not the most, er, popular student at this school. How hard would it be to enlist one of his enemies to help in a bit of skullduggery?"

Harry was about to protest, when he realized how easy it would be to do just that. A Slytherin with Death Eater sympathies. A Ravenclaw with a misplaced sense of duty or morality. Even some of his fellow Gryffindors who were sick of watching their fair-haired hero consorting with the Green and Silver Menace. The list was depressingly long. His shoulders drooped another defeated inch.

“I thought he was safe,” Harry said to the unknowing tapestry.

“We all did.” Professor Sprout sounded more somber than Harry had ever heard her. “Dumbledore would never have let those children off the grounds, if he thought it put you or Malfoy at risk. Now we’ve lost five students…”

“More than that.” McGonagall cut in, as she handed the list of missing Gryffindors to her colleague.

Sprout glanced down at it, and her eyes widened. “Granger? And _both_ Weasleys?! Merlin’s Beard! What are we to _do?!_ ”

McGonagall’s spine stiffened, and the lines in her face seemed to deepen. “Tell Dumbledore that Voldemort has taken Draco Malfoy, and that war is upon us."

"Oh, my."

A swift, piercing glance at Harry, and McGonagall motioned him to follow. "Yes, Potter, you'd better come, too. I suspect, in the end, you're the only one he wants to see.”

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	6. Whispers in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Draco struggle to survive their captivity, while Harry tries to keep his cool and find his loved ones.

“Ferret? Can you hear me?”

Ron knelt in the front of his cage, clutching the bars, calling across the dungeon chamber to the boy bound to the stone table top. The torches were beginning to gutter, warning him that they would soon be plunged into darkness. He was desperate to reach his friend, to find out what was happening to him, before he lost the light. Draco had not moved since the Death Eaters had left the chamber. He was still breathing—his chest rose and fell in a quick, uneven rhythm—but that was all Ron knew for certain.

“Ferret, please. Talk to me.”

The silver-blond head turned in his direction. In the uncertain light, Malfoy’s face looked ghastly pale, with heavy shadows beneath his cheekbones and circling his eyes. Oddly, the torchlight did not seem to warm his skin, but rather to accentuate the contrast between marble-cold flesh and ruddy flame.

“Look here!” Ron urged, lifting the adamant hand from the straw beside him and slipping it between the bars to hold it out toward the other boy. “Look what I’ve got!”

Draco’s lashes drifted upward. He stared dazedly at the hand, his familiar grey eyes lost in black shadows. Then he drew in a ragged breath and said, “She destroyed it.”

“No. She just blasted it into the corner, where no one could see it.” Ron pulled the hand back into his cage and rubbed at it with his sleeve, trying to wipe the congealed blood from the smooth, diamond-hued surface. “It’s not even scratched.”

Draco watched him for a moment, then whispered, “Give it to Harry.”

“Don’t be daft. It’s going back on your arm where it belongs.” Draco’s eyes fell closed again, and Ron called, panic edging his voice, “Stay with me, Ferret! Stay awake!” When the other boy obediently opened his eyes, Ron added, “The torches are going out, and I can’t stand being alone in the dark. You have to stay awake. Please.”

“Mmh,” was all Draco managed in response, but his eyes stayed open and his gaze rested on the boy in the cage.

Ron clutched the severed hand against his body, as if it could provide some physical link to the boy who had worn it for so long. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Malfoy. I know it’s all my fault and I get it if you never want to speak to me again.”

“Not your fault,” Draco murmured. “Imperiused.”

“I should’ve resisted it. Harry would’ve. You would’ve. But I was too stupid to see the trap in time and too weak to resist the Curse. That’s why they chose me.”

“They chose you, because we’re friends.” He paused, then asked, softly, “Aren’t we?”

Ron felt fresh tears slipping through the old tracks in the dirt on his face. “Yes.”

“I don’t have a lot of friends. I can’t afford to lose one.” His eyes gleamed suspiciously in the half-light, and his voice dropped to a rough whisper. “You only did one thing wrong.”

“What’s that?” Ron asked, with a sniff.

“You stopped hating me.”

“Malfoy…”

“Please. Don’t call me that.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Ferret.”

Ron gave a soggy, gulping laugh and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Harry hates it when I call you that.”

“Harry’s a prat.” Ron laughed again, as more tears slid down his filthy cheeks. “We’re Weasel and Ferret, the Rodent Twins.”

“Funny sort of twins,” Ron murmured, with a smile. “Wonder what my mum’ll say when I tell her I’ve adopted another brother?”

“She’ll murder me. Feed my corpse to the giant squid.”

“Huh. I used to dream of doing that.”

“I know.”

Both boys fell quiet, savoring a brief moment of companionship between the horrors that crowded around them. One of the torches sputtered and died. Ron pulled himself into a tighter ball, huddling into his robes against the bone-deep chill in the air and trying not to think about how desperately cold Malfoy must be, bound naked on the stone table, like some kind of ritual sacrifice.

“Weasel?”

His head came up sharply. “Yeah?”

Draco’s head turned toward him again and his eyes fluttered open. “Just checking.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m stuck in this ruddy cage. Unless I can get this hand to work as a wand…”

“Only works for me.”

“Of course it does. You’re a bleeding Malfoy, aren’t you? Wizarding nobility.”

“Not anymore. Now I’m just Potter’s Plaything. And a… a flowerpot to grow his baby in.”

Ron winced at that and began to chew his lip. “That… that thing You-Know-Who did to you, that charm,” he ventured. “Did it work?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” Ron’s voice cracked on the last word, betraying his nervousness. “Only, how do you know?”

“I can feel it.”

“But what does it feel like? How would you know that what you’re feeling is… is a…”

“Baby. It’s a baby. I can feel it growing, so fast that it’s already moving. And I can hear it—her—in my head, when I concentrate.”

“You can _what?!_ ” Ron squeaked.

“Hear her. Not words. Just feelings. She’s already awake and she’s… part of me, of my wizarding power. That’s how she lives and grows when I’ve got no proper place for her. My power protects her.”

“Does it protect _you?_ ”

Draco hesitated to answer that, seeing the distress in his friend’s face, but finally he murmured, “No.”

“Bloody Hell, Ferret! What’s going to happen when she gets bigger?”

“She’s going to tear my insides apart.”

“No!”

“I can feel it happening already, every time she moves. I don’t know how long this is going to take, but I’m not going to live through it.”

“But you have to! If this really happens—if you have Harry’s baby—you’re going to be a _mum!_ That means, you can’t die and leave Harry and the baby to get on without you, because you _know_ Harry can’t do that! He can’t even take care of _himself_ without you, much less a baby!”

“You think I’d do any better?” Draco asked, with a slight, wistful smile tilting his bloodless lips. “I’d give her to the house-elves to raise. Just like my poor toad.”

“The hell you will. You may be the most selfish git in nature, but you love Harry. Even I know that. And you’ll love Harry’s baby just as much.”

“Maybe.” And from the odd note in his voice, Ron knew he had already handed his heart over to the tiny, impossible creature coming to life inside him. “But the Dark Lord isn’t going to let either one of us take care of her. She belongs to him.”

“She belongs to you,” Ron said stubbornly, his jaw set and his eyes fierce, “and to Harry. Not to that… that…” Giving up on the effort of finding a word bad enough to describe Lord Voldemort, he said, “Harry will come to get us. He’ll take you and the baby back to Hogwarts, where Dumbledore will make sure you both survive, Madam Pomfrey will give you pain potions and plump up your pillows, and even nasty old Snape will go mushy over Harry the Second.”

“I’m not going to name her Harry the Second,” Draco muttered.

“Okay, but if you want any say in it, you’d better stick around. Otherwise, I get to choose, and I’ll call her Harry the Second. Harry Two for short.”

“Harry gets no vote?”

“He’ll be a mental case over you and all the important stuff will be left to Uncle Ron.”

Draco actually smiled at that, though it only deepened the pain in his face. “You could call her Mink or Stoat or Ermine. Keep with tradition.”

“Ermine. I like that.”

“Then you’ll still be the Rodent Twins.”

“You stick around and we can be triplets.”

Draco started to laugh, but it abruptly turned to a sob. He twisted his head away to avoid Ron’s troubled gaze.

“What’s wrong? I’m sorry, Ferret! I didn’t mean to…”

“Nngh, no.” Draco drew in a ragged breath and said to the far wall, “She’s moving. She’s…” His words dissolved in a tearing cry that drew an echo from Ron. When he could master himself enough to speak, he sobbed, “It hurts! Harry! Harry, _please_ …!”

“I’m sorry,” Ron wailed, pounding his head against the bars in frustration. “I know I did this and I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

The sound of footsteps on stone choked off Ron’s anguished cries and turned his eyes to the gaping, black hole that marked the dungeon entrance.

“Someone’s coming, Ferret,” he hissed, even as a tall, robed figure stepped into the room, carrying a wooden tray.

The torches immediately flared, responding to some magic Ron could not perceive, and cast their flickering light over the intruder. It was the willowy woman who had comforted Malfoy after Voldemort performed the charm. She approached the table cautiously, as if afraid someone might see her succoring the prisoner and misinterpret it. Setting down the tray on the table, she took a goblet from it and moved closer to Malfoy. One long hand slid beneath his head, lifting it, while the other tilted the cup to his lips.

“Drink,” she said, in a low, soft voice. Draco stared intently up into her deep, concealing hood but made no move to obey her instructions. “It will ease the pain.”

“If you want to help me,” he said, harshly, “you’ll kill me and this baby, right now.”

“Drink.” He pressed his lips tightly together, refusing. “You must drink it. I dare not kill the child and I will not kill my son.”

Ron gasped. He couldn’t help himself. He’d long since guessed who the hooded woman was, but hearing her declare it came as a shock, anyway.

Malfoy clearly had also guessed who she was, or recognized her face when she bent over him, because he didn’t react at all to her revelation, just said, bitterly, “You were ready to kill me, before. Or to let your master do it.”

“No. Never.”

“I heard what you said to the Wizengamot, Mother. Nothing’s changed since then. I’m still in Harry Potter’s bed, and now I’m producing his child. That should be reason enough for you to finish it. Put us both out of our misery.”

The white hands lifted to brush back her hood, then Narcissa Malfoy gazed down at her son with a face full of grief. “The Dark Lord says you will survive this birth, if he wills it.”

“I don’t want to survive it,” Draco gasped, as another shard of pain ripped through him. “I don’t want Harry’s child in Voldemort’s hands! I would rather die and take her with me, to some place where he can’t touch us.”

“You would die for Harry Potter?”

“You know I would.”

Their eyes locked, and Narcissa’s face seemed to age before Ron’s eyes. She took a steadying breath to master herself, then urged, “Let me make this easier for you, Draco. There is no escape, for you or your child, but it doesn’t have to be a torment.”

Narcissa dropped one hand to rest on his hair in a tentative caress, while with the other, she pulled her wand from her pocket. A sweep of the wand, and Ron saw the shimmer of magic over the table. He devoutly hoped it was a warming spell and it would protect Malfoy from the killing cold of the dungeon, but he couldn’t tell from the other boy’s face what had changed.

Lifting Draco’s head and the goblet again, Narcissa tilted it to his lips, urging, “Drink the potion, please.”

“I will if you tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“The charm. The baby. What’s going to happen to us.”

She considered this offer for a long moment, her expression unchanged, then set down the goblet once more and folded her hands on the table to conceal the tremor in them. “The Fecundus Charm is very powerful, very dangerous magic. It has been banned by International Wizarding law for hundreds of years.”

“Why?”

“I think you know, Draco.”

“It kills the… mother,” he whispered, his tone betraying his fear.

“And the child. Only once has a wizard given birth to a living child, that we know of, and that was more than six hundred years ago. We have no record of how he did it or what happened to mother and child after the birth.”

“Then I don’t have to worry,” Draco rasped out. “We’ll both die, and Voldemort will have nothing to use against Harry.”

Narcissa shook her head. “The Dark Lord has altered the spell. With the traditional spell, the man must carry and nurture the child for nine months. But the babe has no womb, no means of taking nourishment, so it consumes all the wizard’s physical strength and magical power, draining and destroying him, then dies itself. Or it kills them both quickly by kicking holes in his body.”

Draco grunted his understanding.

“But the new spell, with the Dark Lord’s vast power behind it, will form this child in just days—so quickly that even with the incredible drain on your body, you will survive long enough to see it born. Only the Dark Lord has the power to do it. And only you, Draco, can finish it.”

Her hand stroked his hair lightly. “The Dark Lord foresaw even this. He knew you would protect Harry Potter’s child, at any cost to yourself, and provide the necessary magic to complete the spell.”

Draco twisted his head away, trying to avoid her eyes and deny her words, but they both knew he could not.

“It had to be you, the one person who loves Harry Potter enough to do this for him. And for all your talk of killing Potter’s child, you know you cannot do it.”

Draco’s chest heaved, and Ron knew that he was crying—silently, agonizingly, the only way the proud Malfoy knew how to cry. “How do you know all this?” he ground out between unacknowledged sobs.

“He told me. After it was done, in his triumph, he… _gloated_ to me.” Her hand tightened convulsively against Draco’s head, catching at his hair for a moment, then opening to caress him gently again. “He thought I would be proud and happy to know that my grandchild will be the Dark Lord’s chosen heir.”

Draco took a shuddering breath and asked, still speaking to the far wall, “Aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer, just lifted his head again and brought the goblet to his lips. “Drink now, as you promised.”

He obediently opened his mouth to swallow the potion she poured into it. When the cup was empty, Narcissa set it on the tray. “I have food, as well. Broth, bread and cheese.”

“No.” His throat worked. “Nothing.”

“You must eat, Draco. Please.”

“If you want to help me, Mother, let me go!” His eyes locked with hers, his face set with pain and a deep, festering sorrow that made Ron’s chest ache to see it. “Let all of us go. Stop this, before it’s too late.”

Narcissa turned her head away, unable to bear his gaze.

“If you don’t,” he said, his voice hardening with anger, “if you let Voldemort have my daughter, I’ll never forgive you.”

For a long minute, Narcissa did not move, while Draco watched her. Then, abruptly, she spun away from him and snatched up the tray.

“Mother!” he cried. She strode over to Ron’s cage and slapped the tray down in front of it, knocking the empty goblet on its side in the process. “ _Mother!_ ”

As she headed for the door, Draco let out a tearing cry, his back arching with the force of his agony, his head tilted sharply up, and his eyes clenched shut against his tears.

“ _Mother, please!_ ”

She disappeared into the darkness beyond the door, leaving the two boys alone again. The torches sank back to a sullen glow, and a second one guttered out. Ron picked up the hunk of bread on the tray, stared at it, then dropped it and shut his eyes. Draco cried out again, calling for Harry this time, and Ron gritted his teeth to control his own tears.

A third torch sputtered and died.

*** *** ***

Dumbledore sat behind his ornate desk, confronting the teachers crowded around it. The Heads of the four Houses, Professor Moody, Madam Pomfrey and Hagrid were seated on every sort of chair they could find or conjure, all staring at Dumbledore with varying degrees of shock and horror. Harry was there, too, but he stayed quietly in a window embrasure at the back of the room, making himself as close to invisible as he could manage without his cloak. He had no intention of calling attention to himself and getting ejected from this meeting.

The faculty were not reacting well to the news that several of their students had disappeared and were presumed taken by Lord Voldemort. McGonagall and Snape, as Dumbledore’s most trusted lieutenants, did not join in the general panic. But they knew more about what was really happening than the others and looked as grim as Harry felt.

“The situation is grave, I grant you,” the Headmaster said, calmly.

“Grave?” Professor Sprout’s usually placid face was red, her hat sitting askew on her flyaway hair, her hands clutching at the upholstered arms of the wingback chair as her outrage boiled over. “ _Grave?!_ Eleven students, Albus! We have _eleven students_ missing! That’s not grave; it’s a bleeding _catastrophe!_ ”

“We must keep clear heads, Pomona,” Dumbledore chided.

“Bugger that!” Madam Pomfrey declared, startling Harry so much that he nearly fell off his seat. “These are children. _Our_ children. I’ve healed their wounds and mended their bones, for what? So we can hand them over to You-Know-Who to be tortured and killed?”

“We promised them protection!” Flitwick shrieked, bounding up on his stool in his agitation, so he could see Dumbledore over his taller colleagues.

“Several of them are Muggle-borns,” Professor Sprout added, hotly. “He won’t hesitate to kill them, just for fun! Hermione Granger? And _both Weasleys?_ ”

Hagrid rumbled ominously at that, shaking his massive head.

“Do we know why he took these particular students?” Flitwick asked. “What he wants with them?”

“There is no obvious answer,” Dumbledore replied. “I was hoping that you, as their teachers and Heads of House, could tell me what links them to Voldemort, the Death Eaters, Harry…”

All of the heads in the room suddenly swiveled in Harry’s direction. He straightened up, trying to look as if he belonged in this adult company, and surreptitiously wiped his sweating palms on his thighs.

“What do you say, Potter?” Moody growled. “Any ideas?”

“No, Professor. Some of them are my friends, but not all. I barely know Justin and Padma. And I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to the two girls from Hufflepuff.”

“What about Malfoy? Any links to him?”

Harry swallowed uncomfortably, as the air in the room seemed to thicken with tension. “Not that I know of.”

Moody’s magical eye spun to orient on Snape, followed a moment later by his normal one. “Severus? You know the boy better than any of us.”

Snape shrugged. “I’ve never seen Malfoy with most of these students or heard him mention them. He gets along with the Lovegood girl. And he’s been spending more time around the Gryffindors lately. That’s all I can tell you.”

“He studies with us,” Harry said. “Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville. And Luna. I know he’s friends with Luna.” Flitwick nodded his agreement. “But I don’t see how my friendship with them, or Draco’s, has anything to do with this. If Voldemort was looking for Draco’s friends, wouldn’t he have taken Crabbe? He’s the only Seventh Year Slytherin left, besides Draco, and they’ve been friends for years. Plus his dad’s a Death Eater.”

“Maybe that’s why they didn’t take him,” Moody muttered sourly. “They weren’t interested in their own kids, only the disposable ones.”

“Crabbe’s on our side,” Harry insisted, “just like Draco.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t. I’m just offering a theory.”

“We’ll entertain any and all theories,” Dumbledore said, bringing all eyes back to him again. “I want to hear your ideas, no matter how crackpot they may seem. And let me know if you hear anything useful about the school. Our students often know more than we suspect, and if anyone inside Hogwarts had a hand in this, someone may let it slip. In the meantime, we have families to notify.”

A glum silence closed over the teachers.

“Heads of House, I’ll ask each of you to contact the families of your missing students. Except for Molly and Arthur Weasley. I’ll talk to them myself.” His gaze met McGonagall’s and she nodded her understanding. “Be open with them, tell them what we know, but don’t spread panic. And please, do not use the word ‘catastrophe’.”

Dredging up a smile from some deep reserve of optimism, he said, “This is not a catastrophe yet, and with fast action on our part, we may prevent it ever becoming one. Our first priority is to find where Voldemort has taken those children. I’ll get word out to the Order and our supporters at the Ministry. The rest of you, follow the same protocol we did when Mr. Malfoy went missing last Spring. Contact your friends, ask for news, but be discreet.”

“The parents are going to talk,” Snape pointed out. “By tomorrow morning, they’ll be beating down Fudge’s door, demanding that he rescue their children.”

“We can’t prevent that, but we can keep Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy out of it for as long as possible. No one outside this room needs to know that Draco is among the missing, or that we suspect his capture is linked to Voldemort’s plans for Harry. If Fudge learns that they are involved, he’ll twist events to his advantage with no thought for the safety of the students.” His piercing gaze swept the crowd, all glimmer of light or humor gone from them. “Are we agreed on this? No mention of Draco or Harry?”

They all nodded and muttered their agreement, as they shuffled to their feet.

“I’ll speak to Crabbe,” Snape said, “and make sure he keeps quiet about Malfoy. He’s the only other person in that dormitory, so he’s the only one who’ll notice that he’s gone for some time. Malfoy spends little enough time in the Slytherin dungeon these days.”

“Thank you, Severus. Thank you all. My door is always open to you, and if I’m not here, you may speak to Minerva or Severus. They are my seconds in this.”

The teachers all moved toward the door. Harry got to his feet and was about to follow them, when he caught Dumbledore’s eye. The Headmaster noded significantly toward his seat in the window embrasure. Harry subsided gratefully into it and waited for the others to trail out. Finally, the door shut behind McGonagall, leaving Harry alone with Dumbledore.

The old wizard banished all the extra chairs with a sweep of his wand. Harry climbed down from the embrasure and moved up to the nearest Victorian wingback. Perching on the flowered cushions, he looked expectantly at the Headmaster.

Dumbledore propped his elbows on the desktop, folded his hands, and offered Harry a wistful smile. “Here we are again, my boy. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, many more lives are at stake.”

Harry felt his features tighten with mingled anger and grief, but he held himself rigidly under control. He was not going to break, no matter what Dumbledore said next. He was not going to turn into a tearful child who let the adults around him decide the fate of the people he loved. Not this time.

“How are you going to save them?” he asked, his tone rougher and more challenging than he had intended.

“You heard what I told your teachers. That is the extent of my plans.”

“That’s really all? You told them everything?”

“Ah,” his blue eyes gleamed mischievously over the tops of his half-moon spectacles at Harry, “well, maybe not quite everything. There are a few details that are just for you and me.”

Hope leapt up in him. “Such as?”

“Voldemort’s reasons for taking Mr. Malfoy.”

“But…” Harry frowned in confusion, “that’s no secret. He took Malfoy because he knew I’d come after him.”

“Yes and no.” Dumbledore lifted his wand and gave it a little twitch in the direction of a set of tall shelves. A roll of parchment promptly flew out of a cubby hole on the highest shelf and sailed down into his outstretched hand. “You are essentially correct, but it seems there’s more to Voldemort’s plans than simply using Mr. Malfoy as bait.”

He turned the scroll over in his fingers, gazing thoughtfully at it, then flicked it open with his thumb. As the seal broke, purple sparks shot from it, telling Harry that he had broken a protective spell along with the wax.

“If we’re going to save your friends and counter Voldemort’s latest move, we must work together, Harry. Not at cross-purposes, each trying to outwit the other or make it to the goal first.” The smiling, blue eyes were now sharp as a Goblin-forged blade. “But if we’re going to work together, we need to trust each other. No secrets. No hidden plots or manipulation. No information withheld. We have both erred in this respect, more than once, but it is time for us to learn from our mistakes and move forward together. In the interests of building trust, I’m willing to take the first step and reveal all my cards.”

He held out the scroll to Harry. “Read that.”

Wearing a look of bafflement, Harry accepted the scroll, flattened the single sheet of parchment, and read:

 

_Hated and loved. Coveted and spurned.  
T_ _he trophy all seek though none value it.  
_ _The spoils of war ere the battle is fought.  
_ _His is the sacrifice brings victory or death._

 

He stared for a full minute at the single stanza, unable to tear his eyes away though he had absorbed and understood it in one glance. It made perfect sense to him. He did not doubt for an instant that the words applied to Draco, and they certainly explained Voldemort’s actions. It was not disbelief, or even fear, that held him immobile, eyes glued to the parchment. It was disgust.

How could anyone call Draco these things? Trophy? Spoils? Sacrifice? He was person! A beautiful, infuriating, impossible, entirely wonderful person, not a _thing_ to be captured and bartered and _used_ in this revolting way! It was bad enough to think of Voldemort using Harry’s love for Draco against them both, but to have even that stripped away, to have him reduced to a ritual sacrifice, like an animal tied to an altar? It was beyond disgusting. It was…

“You see how it all fits together,” Dumbledore said quietly, interrupting his furious, roiling thoughts and bringing his eyes up with a snap.

“Where did you get this?”

“The centaurs. This is what they read in the stars that persuaded them to let Mr. Malfoy live, after he stumbled into their clearing.”

“ _Our_ centaurs? In _our_ Forest? How did Voldemort learn about it?”

Dumbledore lifted his hands helplessly. “Perhaps he read the portents himself. I don’t know. But clearly, he has heard or seen it and taken it to heart.”

“Yes.” Harry dropped his eyes to the page again. “It explains a lot.”

“It certainly does. But remember, Harry, that prophecies are only meaningful if we make them so. Voldemort’s reliance on them is a weakness. It makes him overconfident and predictable. We already knew the only salient fact—that you love Draco Malfoy enough to start a war for him—the rest is a trap for the unwary.”

“Like Voldemort.”

Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Once again, he has let a prophecy lure him into unwise, even reckless actions, believing that it makes him invulnerable. He’s going to discover his mistake.”

“He’s going to use Draco as his sacrifice,” Harry countered, his stomach clenching in horror at the thought, “which means he’s already dead.”

“Not necessarily. Sacrifices, like prophecies, are not always what they seem. A sacrifice does not have to end in blood and death. It may be freely given. It may be offered and rejected. Sometimes, the offer itself is enough.”

“That’s all very well and good, but it’s what Voldemort believes that matters. He won’t care about freely given sacrifices, only about blood and death and destroying Draco to get to me. If he believes that he has to kill Draco to win this war, he’ll do it. He’ll _enjoy_ it.”

The twinkle in the old wizard’s eyes died, leaving them deeply sad, but the gaze he fixed on Harry was clear, with no evasion in it. “Yes. So tell me, Harry. Knowing that Voldemort intends to kill Mr. Malfoy, if he hasn’t already, what will you do?”

Harry digested this, examining his feelings, searching for an answer as blunt and honest as the question. Finally, he said, “I won’t fall apart like I did last time, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll see this through and do my part to defeat Voldemort, no matter what happens to Draco. I promise you that, Professor.”

“Thank you.”

“But you need to know that I’m doing it for him. And when it’s over, I’ll be with him, wherever he is.”

“I understand.”

“Alive or dead.”

“I understand, and I expected nothing else.”

“Good.” Harry gave a satisfied nod and turned alert, questioning eyes on the Headmaster. “So, what’s next?”

“For the moment, I need you to wait.” Harry opened his mouth to protest, a sudden flush of annoyance darkening his cheeks, but Dumbledore halted him with a raised hand. “I’m not trying to push you aside; I’m simply asking you to wait until we have more information. Stay where I can easily find you. Talk to your classmates and see if they have any ideas about what happened to their friends. And think about what you’ll do when the time comes to face Voldemort.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Harry said. “For years I’ve just assumed that I have to be the one to kill Voldemort, but honestly, I have no idea how! I can disarm him, stun him maybe, but what good is that against the most powerful Dark wizard of all time?”

“Hmm.” Dumbledore steepled his fingers and rested them against his lips, while his eyes dwelled on Harry’s troubled face. “I can’t tell you how to defeat Voldemort. If I knew that secret, I’d have done it myself when he first returned to power. But I can offer a few pieces of advice.

“First, remember that your strength is your heart. As Mr. Malfoy is so fond of saying, love is a weapon, and no one loves harder than you do, Harry. Use your passion, your love, your enormous heart as a weapon against Voldemort—a creature who has none of those things and does not understand their power.

“Second, trust your instincts. You know better than anyone that when you ignore your instincts and try to overthink things, you get into trouble. So don’t rely too much on preparation or plans…”

“In other words, wing it?” Harry interjected sourly.

Dumbledore smiled. “That approach has served you well in the past.”

“When I was fighting for my life and only wanted to escape! This is different. This time, I’m deliberately walking _into_ a fight instead of running _away_ , and I have to kill him! How’m I supposed to do that?”

“Ah. That is my last piece of advice and the thing I want you to ponder, while you’re loitering about the Gryffindor tower, chewing your nails to the quick. Voldemort survived the Killing Curse that failed to kill you, because he was able to separate some part of his soul from his body at the crucial moment. This requires magic of a very difficult and dangerous kind.”

“The sort of magic that no one else will even try?”

“No one who values his soul, at any rate. But the key word, here, is ‘magic’. It required that he perform this magic in the split second between seeing the Curse rebound and feeling it strike his own body. I don’t know how he managed it, but I do know that he’ll do it again, if given the chance. And if he does it again, we’ll be right back where we started, with his spirit lurking about in the world, an ever-present threat.”

“So… I have to keep his soul in his body. Somehow. While also killing him.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know how to block the spell he used the first time.”

“No.”

“And I’m supposed to figure this out while I’m studying for my N.E.W.T.s?”

A gleaming smile lit the lined, weary face. “No one said this was going to be easy.”

“You’ll let me know if you think of a way? And you’ll tell me if you hear anything about my friends?”

“I will keep you fully informed. No secrets, remember?”

Harry nodded and got to his feet. “I’ll be in my dormitory, if you need me.”

“Excellent. And Harry.” The boy halted with his hand on the door latch, looking back over his shoulder. “Keep your wand and your invisibility cloak about you at all times. We may have to move quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

Five minutes later, Harry strode into his dormitory to find Seamus and Dean there before him. They were seated on Seamus’ bed, clearly in the middle of a heated discussion, but they broke off at Harry’s entrance to stare at him. He checked on the threshold, then shrugged his shoulders, as if throwing off an unwelcome touch, and headed for his own bed.

“What’s going on, Harry?” Dean asked, eagerly. “Did you talk to Dumbledore? Has he found them?”

“No.” Harry pushed aside the bed curtains, noting that the house-elves had already done their work and his belongings were in perfect order. He flipped back his pillow, expecting to see the silvery cloak folded beneath it, but saw only smooth sheets. The cloak wasn’t there.

Dean got to his feet and took a step toward Harry. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing.” His eyes swept the bed, shelves and trunk, while his mind raced. Where could he have put it? He always left it under his pillow—always—unless he had it with him.

He opened the trunk and began pushing around the haphazard collection of clothes, books and junk that filled it.

“Harry…”

“Give over, Dean,” Seamus snapped. “Precious Potter won’t tell us anything. And it’s not like they’re _our_ friends, too.”

Busy as he was rifling through the contents of his trunk, Harry only half heard this pointed remark. He convinced himself that the cloak was not in his trunk, then bent to peer under to bed. Of course, the house-elves would not leave it there, but he had to check. Perhaps they had taken it to be cleaned? For the first time in nearly seven years?

Finally he straightened up and turned to confront his housemates, who had resumed their seats on the far bed. “Have either of you been messing about with my stuff?”

“What?” Dean asked, startled, while Seamus turned a bright, furious red.

“Nobody wants to touch your _stuff_ , Potter!”

“Have you seen anyone else around my bed?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re the only ones _in_ this room anymore!” Seamus snarled.

Harry waved that away absently. “No, I mean someone who doesn’t belong up here.”

“Oh, right, like your slimy, little ferret? That kind of someone?” He smiled smugly, disgust and resentment rolling off of him in waves. “If you’re missing something, why don’t you look under _his_ pillow? Or maybe under his _robes_. You like it up there, don’t you?”

Harry’s brain snapped abruptly into sharp focus, and he turned cold, unforgiving eyes on the other boy. “Stuff it up your arse, Finnegan. I’ve had all I’m going to take of your rubbish. You don’t like who I sleep with? Fine! Just shut your bleeding gob about it.”

“Or what?” Seamus shot back, his fists clenched as he fought the urge to hurl himself bodily at Harry.

“Or I’ll show you just how nasty ‘Precious Potter’ can get. Don’t think I haven’t learned a thing or two, hanging around with my _slimy little ferret._ ”

“Hey, guys…” Dean ventured, only to be shouted down by Seamus.

“I’ll just bet you have! But I wouldn’t brag about it, if I were you!”

“I’m not bragging, I’m making you a promise. One more word about Malfoy and I’ll…”

“Oi! Shut it!”

Their mouths snapped shut and their heads swiveled to fix matching glares on Dean. He set his jaw stubbornly and said, “I’m bloody sick of listening to both of you. So if you can’t be decent to each other, just… go to opposite corners of the room and _stay there_.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it and closed it again. Seamus turned his head away to stare at the far wall.

“Why’d you ask us about your stuff, Harry?”

“My cloak is gone.”

Dean pointed to a jumble of black fabric falling out of the trunk. “It’s right there.”

“Not that one. This is a—a silver-grey one that I keep under my pillow. It’s always there, unless I have it on me, and hardly anyone even knows I own it.”

“Including us,” Seamus interjected, sourly.

“Right. So who could’ve taken it?”

“When was the last time you saw it?” Dean asked.

“This morning, when I got dressed for breakfast. It was right there.” He pointed to the upended pillow and the obviously empty spot beneath it.

“So someone was up here today, while we were in Hogsmeade.”

“I wasn’t in Hogsmeade,” Harry reminded him, “I was down in the common room, until you and Seamus came back. Then I went to the library.”

“And we’ve been here ever since. So one of the three of us must have seen whoever took it.”

Harry stared at him, turning over in his mind everything he remembered from that day. Every person he had seen. And then it hit him. His face went blank with shock, his knees gave way, and he crumpled nervelessly down to sit on the bed.

“Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“Oh, my… no. He wouldn’t.” He buried his face in his hands. “He wouldn’t.”

“Who?” Seamus was standing over him now, anger and resentment forgotten in the face of Harry’s distress. “Who was it?”

“It can’t be. He wouldn’t do it. Not to Draco. Not to _me_.”

“Harry,” Dean ventured, his eyes wide with alarm, “are you saying that…?”

“Ron.” Harry lifted his head to meet the other boy’s stunned gaze. “Ron was here. I saw him… spoke to him… Bloody Hell! _I told him where Draco was!_ ”

“Hang on. Are you saying that Malfoy’s gone, too?”

“Yes. Only he didn’t go into Hogsmeade, like the others. Someone came onto the castle grounds and took him, but we couldn’t figure out who. Or how.”

“And you think Weasley did it?” Seamus asked, stunned.

“It makes sense. He knew I had the cloak and knew where I kept it. He was up here, in this room, alone, just this morning. And I told him where to find Draco. I told him. Oh, God.” He ducked his head and wrapped his arms around his torso, fighting nausea.

“Why would he do something like that?” Dean asked. “He and Malfoy are friends.”

“Well, he wouldn’t, that’s all,” Seamus insisted. “Even I wouldn’t do that to Malfoy, and I hate the little sod.”

“Seamus,” Dean warned.

“Sorry, but I do.”

“Yeah, we all know you do,” Harry said wearily. “Your point, please?”

“That was it. If _I_ wouldn’t sell out Malfoy to You-Know-Who, Ron sure as shite wouldn’t. So there’s got to be another explanation.”

Harry heaved himself to his feet, feeling suddenly so exhausted and weighted down with sorrow that he could barely move. “I have to tell Dumbledore.”

The other two boys watched him plod to the door, where he paused in the opening to say, “If you think of anything… anyone else who might’ve…”

“You mean, someone to blame for kidnapping your boyfriend, besides your best mate?” Seamus offered.

Harry didn’t rise to the bait. “Yeah.”

“We’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Thanks.” He pulled the door shut behind him and headed down the stairs.

*** *** ***

“ _Lumos._ ”

Nothing.

Ron gripped the adamant hand a little more tightly and screwed his eyes shut in concentration. It would only work as a wand for Draco Malfoy. So he, Ron Weasley, had to convince it that he was actually a perfect Slytherin prince, the archangel of Harry’s imaginings, instead of a shabby Gryffindor nobody in secondhand robes. Holding a clear image of Malfoy in his head—standing in the Room of Requirement, firing a jet of silver light from the tip of one finger, his mouth tilted in a half-smile, not a hair or a fold of his robe out of place—he summoned his power and tried again.

“ _Lumos._ ”

Still nothing.

The dungeon was pitch black now, all the torches burnt out and no glimmer of light penetrating this far underground. Ron sat at the front of his cage, huddled into his robes against the cold, trying again and again to cast the simplest spells he knew with the adamant hand. Draco was asleep—or Ron hoped he was—and after hours of listening to him in agony, Ron was grateful for the respite. Unfortunately, without Draco to talk to, he was alone in the black pit of their prison, with the silence breathing on his neck like a great, malignant beast.

As the hours of their imprisonment stretched into days, Draco grew weaker and weaker, his own body dwindling while the life inside him grew. When the baby was awake, he held long conversations with Ron to distract himself or, if the pain was too much to bear, called out to Harry, Dumbledore, his mother and even his dead father for help. At such times, Ron was grateful for the darkness that hid him. Then the baby would go back to sleep, and Draco would fall into a silence so profound that he might have simply vanished. Ron’s greatest fear was that Draco would die in the terrible, freezing darkness, and no one would know until his mother showed up with another meal and found him stiff and cold on the stone table.

It was this fear, as much as his own need to push back the silence, that drove him to try the hand again and again. If he could cast any sort of spell with it, he could get out of this cage and reach Draco. Then Draco could use the hand to free himself and get them both home to Hogwarts. And Harry. If only he could make the bloody thing work…

But it was Malfoy’s hand and it didn’t want anything to do with a Weasley interloper. The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Olivander always said, and the adamant hand had done more than just choose Malfoy. It had become part of him. How was Ron supposed to trick it into believing that the strange wizard holding it had any right to use it?

Then a new idea struck him. Maybe the secret lay in _not_ trying to trick it. Maybe he and the hand wanted the same thing—to reach Draco Malfoy—and they could help each other get there.

Closing his eyes once more, he gripped the hand tightly and focused all his thoughts on Draco as he had last seen him: his cold, white body stretched on the table; his wrist, elbows and ankles bound in place; his head turned to show Ron a pale, twisted, pain-wracked face and eyes lost in black shadows. Snarled, grimy, white-blond hair tangled beneath his head. Bloodied fingers, torn on the harsh stone, now half-curled, motionless. And finally, the thing that both fascinated and horrified him, the swelling at his abdomen that seemed to grow ever bigger as Draco grew smaller and whiter and weaker beneath it.

 _That’s where you belong,_ Ron thought at the hand. _He needs you. He needs us both. You chose him, now help him._

“ _Lumos_.”

Light struck Ron’s eyelids. He jerked upright, almost dropping the hand, eyes flying open. A ball of bluish wandlight was hanging in the air just above the curved, still, adamant fingers.

“Blimey!” he breathed reverently. Then, twisting to point the hand at the locked door of his cage, he said, more firmly, “ _Alohomora!_ ”

The lock clicked. With a sob of relief, Ron pushed open the door and crawled through it. The ball of wand fire followed him, casting its cold light around the chamber, over the huge table a dozen feet or more away. His legs had gone numb and useless, folded up in the small cage. He tried twice to stand, only to fall back to the floor in a heap of filthy robes, then he gave up and crawled toward the table.

“Ferret,” he called. No one answered.

He reached the table and use its edge to haul himself to his feet. Waving the ball of wandlight over to hover just above his shoulder, he gazed down at his friend.A great lump of pain rose in his throat.

Draco was not asleep. His eyes were half-open, staring up at the ball of light as if they didn’t recognize it. They looked like open wounds in his wasted, deathly-white face. When Ron touched his shoulder and said his name, his gaze tracked sluggishly over to his face. He took a long, labored, ragged breath that seemed to drain the last of his strength.

Then he whispered, “How?”

Ron tried to smile, but it came out all wrong. Holding up the adamant hand, he said, his voice edged with tears, “It’s a wand. Who’d’ve guessed?”

Draco took a couple of those deep, draining breaths to give himself enough oxygen for speech and whispered, “Take it. Go.”

“Not without you, Ferret.”

“Can’t. I can’t walk.”

Catching Draco’s right hand in his own, Ron laid the adamant hand across his palm, then curved his fingers up around it and held them in place. “Use the hand. Cut yourself loose, then do _Mobilicorpus_ on yourself.”

A tear slid from the corner of Draco’s eye, rolling slowly down into the hair at his temple. “I can’t. Go, Ron. Please.”

“I won’t leave you and little Ermine here alone. I won’t.”

“I’ll get you caught… killed…”

“Yeah, and if I show up at Hogwarts without you, Harry’ll kill me, so I’m buggered either way. I’m not going anywhere without you, you stupid, stubborn, ferret-faced git!”

Draco’s next breath was a sob, and the very fact that the Slytherin would cry in front of him told Ron just how close he was to the end of his endurance. More tears trickled from between his lashes. His bloodless lips moved in a whisper. “Weasel.”

“I’m here.”

“Do something for me.”

“Anything.” Forgetting that he would rather die a miserable death than touch Draco Malfoy, Ron stroked one hand over his hair, then let it rest gently on his head. “Anything except leave.”

“When you see him… Harry… Tell him about his daughter.”

“I will.”

“Tell him… it was a lie. What I said about the others.”

“Bloody hell, Draco,” Ron was crying now, too, unable to control himself in the face of his friend’s agony, “do you think I don’t know that?”

“She’s his. Only his.”

“We _all_ know that! Even You-Know-Who!”

“He has to know I wouldn’t… wouldn’t…” His back arched in pain and his eyes squeezed shut. “Ron!”

“I’m right here.” He began to stroke the silver-blond hair again, soothingly. “Hold on.”

“He has to save her from Voldemort!” Draco gasped.

“He will. I swear it.” Ron set the adamant hand on the table and clasped Draco’s flesh and blood fingers in his own. “Harry will tear the whole, bleeding world apart to save his daughter. And you. He’s coming for you, Ferret, I promise. You have to believe it!”

“Too late. It’s too late. But not for Lily.”

“Lily?” Suddenly, impossibly, Ron smiled. “That’s her name?”

“Lily Iphigenia Potter. Tell him.”

“You seriously want to name your daughter Iphigenia?”

“Something from me… only thing I have left.”

“A ruddy awful name?”

“Family name.”

“Well, I suppose it’s better than Narcissa or Bellatrix.”

“Please, Ron. Tell him.”

Ron stroked his hair again. “I will, and I’ll make sure he does it.” Another stroke of his hand, a watery smile, and he mused, “Maybe Iphigenia’s not so bad. Little Iffy Malfoy sounds almost as good as Ermine or Harry Two.”

Draco gave a sob of something that was caught between pain and laughter. He closed his eyes against fresh tears. “Will you go now?”

“No. I’m staying here with you and Iffy.”

Before Draco could summon an answer to this, they both heard footsteps on stone. The torches sprang to life, flooding the dungeon with orange light, and Ron spun around to see Narcissa Malfoy stride into the chamber. For a heart-stopping moment, no one moved. They simply stared at each other in shock.

Ron abruptly came unglued and grabbed for the adamant hand, a spell forming in his mind, even as Narcissa hissed, “Get away from my son, you blood-traitor!” and slashed at him with her wand.

In the split second before the curse hit him, Ron heard Draco shouting, “No!”

Then the world went black once more.

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	7. Born in Blood and Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort has his weapon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some nasty, homophobic language in this one and a lot of blood, so consider yourself warned.

 

The throng of Death Eaters had collected once more about the table, a palpable excitement radiating from them. In the three days since last they had stood together in this dungeon room, Ron had suffered a lifetime of fear and pain. And he had only been forced to listen. He didn’t dare think too hard about what it had been like for Draco—suffering unspeakable torments, feeling Harry’s child grow inside him, knowing that he was simultaneously betraying the person he loved most and handing the Dark Lord his ultimate weapon—or he’d go mad. He might, still, he thought, as he crouched in his cage, watching Lord Voldemort prepare to gut his friend and steal Harry’s child.

Voldemort stepped up to the table and threw back his hood. His skull-like face was filled with a gloating anticipation that made Ron feel physically ill, even before he saw the long, cold, blue-white blade erupt from the tip of the Dark Lord's wand.

"I will take the child," he called, in his strangely high voice. "The boy is not to die, yet. One of you must heal him as I cut. Bellatrix…”

A familiar, cloaked figure standing halfway down the table swayed forward, her hand lifted in silent protest.

Voldemort caught her movement and smiled. "You would prefer to bear that burden, Narcissa?”

Draco’s mother spoke from inside her hood, her voice low and oddly calm. "I have more skill in healing than my sister, Lord."

"And you would gladly use those powers to spare your son, but I do not want to spare him, only to keep him alive long enough to serve my purposes. Bellatrix will do the job admirably."

"As you wish, my Lord," Narcissa murmured.

The Dark Lord seemed to soften at this, though Ron knew that it was an illusion of the torchlight. "I have another task for you. Come." He gestured for Narcissa to join him, casually thrusting Wormtail away as he did so. Narcissa moved to stand immediately to his left, her posture questioning but not cowering.

When he had his Death Eaters placed to his satisfaction, Voldemort turned his attention to Draco. The boy lay spread-eagled on the table, as he had for endless days. His head was turned slightly in Ron's direction, allowing his friend to see the white sickness in his face and the half-dried tears clogging his lashes. His eyes were closed, his pale lips parted to aid his labored breathing, and he seemed not to notice that Lord Voldemort loomed over him.

Voldemort reached out to touch the swelling at Draco's abdomen—now so large that it dwarfed the boy himself—spreading his long fingers to clasp it possessively. Draco shuddered at his touch and muttered something Ron could not hear but could easily guess at. He was calling for Harry, as he had so many times through the hours of torture. Voldemort knew it, too, and he smiled cruelly.

"Your master will come for you soon, little worm, but not soon enough to save you or his child. When I have cut the spawn of Harry Potter from your body, I will take it as my own, and I will fashion it to his destruction."

Draco tossed his head and called, sharply, "Lily!"

"Lily?" Voldemort studied him curiously, then uttered his high, cold laugh. "Call upon the dead for aid! They have as much chance of saving you as your pathetic Harry does! Now, little worm, prepare to meet your child for the first and last time."

Ron saw the glittering blade fall, and he closed his eyes tightly to block out the terrible sight of Draco's face. A scream cut the air, more agonized than any Draco had uttered under the torture of the Cruciatus Curse. Ron's eyes flew open again. He could not stop himself—he had to look.

The Death Eaters not actively helping Voldemort had drawn back, giving Ron a clear view of the ghastly surgery taking place. Draco, very much awake, was held immobile by his magical bonds, but that did not stop him from screaming. Nor did it slow the blood that gushed from the gaping wound in his belly. Blood seemed to be everywhere, spattering Narcissa's hands, painting the front of Voldemort's robe with wet streaks, pooling on the table and staining every visible inch of Draco's skin. Bellatrix stood at Draco's head, her claw-like hands clasping it roughly, her eyes closed, and her lips forming a silent spell. If her magic was doing anything to help her nephew, Ron could not see how. It looked to him as if the other boy were dying in front of him, his life pumping out of him in hot, wet, crimson streams.

Suddenly, in the midst of this horror, Voldemort took a step back and lifted his hands in triumph. Ron stared at the body lying between those spidery fingers, and his heart stopped. It was a baby. A tiny, perfect, blood-soaked baby. And as Ron watched, it squirmed and uttered a thin, furious cry.

"It is done! Stop the bleeding, Bellatrix, and close the wound, but no more."

"Please, my Lord…" Narcissa began, but Voldemort cut her off with a glance.

"Your duty is to care for the child. Your grandchild, Narcissa. Her life is in your hands, and if you fail me in this, _your_ life is forfeit."

"Her," Ron breathed, feeling tears start in his eyes. "A girl."

Draco, too, caught the meaning of Voldemort's words, and he mustered his strength to call out again, "Lily!"

"Ah!" An ugly, red light shone in Voldemort's eyes for a moment. "You dare to give a Mudblood's name to Lord Voldemort's chosen heir?"

"Lily," Draco whispered, a desperate edge to his voice.

"Would you like to see the child you have given to me?" He stepped closer to the head of the table, now cradling the child against his chest in one hand and brandishing his wand in the other. "Would you like a glimpse of her face to take with you into the cold nothingness of death?"

Draco lifted his head, fighting his bonds as he struggled to sit up. Ron could only guess what it cost him to move at all, given the surgery he had just witnessed, but Draco seemed not to notice the pain in his body, so intent was he on finding his child.

Voldemort drew still closer, taunting his prisoner with the hope of mercy, and Draco strained more frantically against his bonds.

"Lily," he gasped, "please!"

"Here is your child, Malfoy. Harry Potter's child. _My_ child!" With these words, Voldemort moved as if to offer Draco a glimpse of the baby, but instead raised his wand to point at the boy's twisted, agonized face. Cold, white lips spat a curse. Red light shot from the tip of Voldemort's wand. Draco's head jerked backward, striking the table with brutal force, as blood spurted grotesquely from his eyes and poured down his face. Draco's cry of pain ripped the air, dragging a sob from Ron and causing his mother to flinch.

Voldemort spun away from the table and the body lying, shuddering, upon it. Holding out the squirming, howling baby to Narcissa, he snapped, "Feed it, clean it, and see to its needs. Put these two in the cells. And make sure the boy lives, Bellatrix! I will be very displeased if he dies before Potter comes for him."

With that, he strode out of the chamber, drawing most of his Death Eaters with him. Narcissa took the baby gently in her arms, cradling her close and wrapping her in a fold of her own cloak. She, too, followed Voldemort from the dungeon, but not without a backward glance at her son's still, crushed, brutalized form.

*** *** ***

Angry voices approached the door, accompanied by the clunk of Moody’s wooden leg against the floor. Dumbledore’s wand was in his hand before Harry had a chance to register what he was hearing. With one wave, he banished all the maps, papers and paraphernalia from the desk. Another wave produced a heavy tea tray that he set on the spotlessly-clean desk, just as the door opened. Alastor Moody stumped through it, followed closely by Cornelius Fudge.

“I must protest, Dumbledore!” Fudge snapped, already on the offensive before he’d fairly crossed the threshold. Then his eyes fell on the young man seated in front of Dumbledore’s desk, and he froze. “What are you doing here, Potter?”

“Having tea with me,” Dumbledore replied, equably. “Care to join us, Cornelius?”

“I didn’t come here for tea. I have business to discuss with you, Dumbledore. Business that does not concern Mr. Potter!”

“Then you’re wasting your time, because Harry is here as my guest, and he’s not leaving ’til I ask him to. Sit down, Cornelius, and make yourself comfortable. Alastor, thank you, I’ll speak to the Minister.”

Moody accepted his dismissal with a nod. Fudge waited until he’d left and shut the door, then he tossed his bowler hat into the empty chair and struck what he thought was a commanding pose. His weak, fat face twisted with distaste when his eyes touched Harry.

“Well, well, I don’t suppose I should be surprised to find you here. Tea with the Headmaster, now, is it?”

“Professor Dumbledore makes an good cup of tea.”

“Really, Dumbledore…!” Fudge spluttered, his temper flaring.

“If you want to talk to me, sit down,” Dumbledore said, lightly. “I don’t wish to get a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

Fudge flushed a dark, furious red but pointedly ignored his request. “I came here to find out what you know about these missing students!”

“No more than you do, I expect.”

“Balderdash! You always have your finger in every pie, meddling in other people’s business…”

“You must admit that missing students are very much my business.”

“They’re the _Ministry’s_ business! But are you helping us find them? Are you sharing your information and resources? No! You’re… _having tea with Potter!_ ”

“Mr. Potter and I were discussing where to look.”

“Oh.” Fudge turned a nasty, sneering smile on Harry. “I see. Potter is an expert on finding missing persons, now.”

“Well, he does know quite a bit about Voldemort. You must grant him that.”

“Certainly, since he took up with You-Know-Who’s bum-boy.”

Harry felt the blood drain from his cheeks and his features harden. Disgust and rage rose like magma in him. Fudge’s face blurred and ran, as his wizarding power began to spark behind his eyes, preparing to erupt out of him in a blaze of fury. Then Dumbledore’s voice reached him. It was calm. Cold. A dash of ice water down his spine that recalled him to a sense of his surroundings.

“We’re done, here, Cornelius.” Squashing down his anger and his power together, Harry turned to see the Headmaster on his feet, his face as frozen as his voice. “Alastor will escort you to the gate.”

“We’re not done! I need to speak to you, Dumbledore, _without_ your tame hero listening in!”

“I, however, do not need to speak to you. Nor will I, until you learn some manners. Good day.”

“Give me the names of the missing students, at least! I have to speak to the families… organize the search…”

“I have informed their families.” Dumbledore was around his desk, opening the door, revealing Professor Moody just coming up the spiral staircase to meet him. “The Minister is leaving, Alastor.”

“I thought he might be.”

“Please see that he gets safely through the wards.”

“This isn’t over, Dumbledore!” Fudge railed. “I’ll take this to the Board of Governors! I won’t be dismissed in this way!”

“Do as you like, Cornelius.”

He nodded brusquely at Moody. The old Auror twitched at Fudge’s arm, drawing him out of the room, then shut the door on his continued threats. Dumbledore took a moment to collect himself, cool his temper, then returned to his desk. His step was noticeably slower and heavier than before.

Once back in his chair, he poured two cups of tea and slid one over to Harry. “Get that in you, my boy. I daresay you need it.”

Harry took a grateful sip. When he could command his voice, he said, “That was ugly.”

Dumbledore sighed. “The Minister is afraid, and when he’s afraid, he lashes out.”

“Hasn’t he learned by now that he can’t bully you?” That earned him a soft laugh from the old wizard. “We all want the same thing. Why couldn’t he just ask for your help?”

“Because the days when Cornelius Fudge could ask for my help are long gone. You know better than anyone how strained our relationship has become. And why.”

Harry took another swallow of his tea to arm himself, then he asked, “Those things he said about Draco… does he believe them? Or is he just…”

“I don’t know what he believes, but he is doing his utmost to convince the wizarding world that Draco Malfoy is Voldemort’s creature, sent by his master to entrap and corrupt their shining hero.”

“Why?”

“In order to explain why Harry Potter is not standing at his side, smiling for the camera, endorsing everything he does.”

“Everything he does, like, trying to throw my boyfriend in prison and stealing his family estate? That kind of thing?”

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes gazing sympathetically at Harry over the tops of his spectacles. “Precisely.”

“Berk.”

His smile widened. “Precisely.”

Downing yet another gulp of tea, Harry said, hesitantly, “Professor…”

“Yes, my boy?”

“Can I ask you something? Not… not meaning any disrespect, but I would like to know…”

“Anything, Harry. Remember? No secrets.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been wondering why… why you let the students go into Hogsmeade at all. Only, after the attack on Azkaban, I would’ve thought it was too dangerous.”

“In retrospect, you were right. Obviously.” Dumbledore gave another weary sigh. “The truth is, Harry, I put too much faith in the stars.”

“Professor!” Harry said, shocked.

A wry smile tilted his bearded lips. “Foolish of me, I know, after all my warnings about giving portents too much power. But I was certain that Voldemort would not move against us until he had Mr. Malfoy, and I was equally certain that we could keep Mr. Malfoy out of his hands. I assumed that the other students were not at risk, only you and Draco, so I took a calculated risk.”

“But why? Why risk it at all?”

“To relieve the growing tension in the castle. To give all those frightened children one more day of freedom before the next blow fell.” He shrugged. “Perhaps to prove that I was one step ahead of my adversary, that I could use his own weapons against him. I’m a proud man, Harry. Some might say arrogant. I put more faith in my own abilities than in anything or anyone else, and it has been my downfall on more than one occasion. Each time, I tell myself that I’ve learned my lesson. Each time, I promise myself that I won’t repeat the mistake. And each time, I do.”

“I don’t think you’re arrogant. I think you trust yourself more than anyone else, because you’re right more often than anyone else.”

“That’s kind of you, especially considering what my latest blunder has cost you.”

“It hasn’t cost me anything, yet,” Harry said, roughly. “Draco is still alive—I’m sure of it—and we’re going to find him.”

“Of course, my boy.”

“So don’t start doubting your abilities now, because I need them!”

Dumbledore lifted his teacup in a kind of salute, a warm, slightly wistful smile on his face. “I am at your disposal.”

*** *** ***

“Draco?” He heard the voice from very close, no more than a faint breath on the chill air. “Draco, can you hear me?”

He didn’t move. He didn’t have the strength to spare, and more than likely, it was only a figment of his imagination anyway, since the owner of that voice had long since abandoned him. Then a hand touched his hair in a familiar caress.

“My darling boy.” He started to lift his head, but the hand restrained him and the voice moved even closer, dropped even lower. “No. Keep still. Save your strength.”

“Mother.” There was no breath or voice behind the word. He formed it silently with stiff, cracked lips in the hope that she would recognize it.

“Yes. I can’t stay and I can’t do any magic to help you.” Her voice was suddenly thick with tears. “Bellatrix must never know I was here, or she’ll punish you for it. But I had to see you. Just this once.”

Lips touched his forehead. They were wet.

“Don’t be afraid, my dear. Don’t give up. I promise you that there’s still a way out of this.”

“Baby,” he mouthed.

“She’s safe with me. Trust me.” Her hand rested on his hair for another moment, then her lips brushed his forehead again. “I’m begging you to trust me. And be strong. I may not see you again, but I need you to know that I have your daughter safe and that I love you, Draco. I do. With all my heart.”

He felt tears dropping on his face and heard the swish of her robe as she rose to her feet. “Good bye.”

Then she was gone, and he was alone again in the freezing darkness.

*** *** ***

They sat around Dumbledore’s desk, as they had so many times before, poring over the scraps of parchment that littered it and the map of Britain spread over its top. Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape and Harry Potter. In some ways the unlikeliest of allies, but in others the only alliance that mattered. Gryffindor and Slytherin, bravery and cunning, passion and practicality, all united under the Headmaster’s piercing eye to solve this most urgent problem: where was Voldemort hiding?

“I still think Malfoy Manor is the most likely place,” Snape said, his eyes dwelling on one of the handful of marks on the map. “The Dark Lord has always coveted it. He would take pleasure in staging his great victory there.”

“If we’re talking about appropriate scenes for victory, Hogwarts would be at the top of the list,” McGonagall retorted.

“We hold Hogwarts.”

“And the Ministry holds Malfoy Manor. They confiscated it from Narcissa, disinherited Draco, and sealed the grounds with all its contents.”

“That wouldn’t stop the Dark Lord. For all we know, he’s infiltrated the Ministry and taken control of key figures there. Perhaps of Fudge, himself.”

“In which case, I would choose the Ministry itself as the most likely place to hold those children. It’s vast, with ample hiding places, and more secure than any other site in Britain.”

“What about Stonehenge?” Harry interjected. “The Giants’ Dance? He used it once before.”

“That ritual went sadly wrong,” Dumbledore said, “and Voldemort is not one to revisit his own failures. But I have sent Order wizards to search the underground chambers, just in case.”

“And?”

“They have not yet succeeded in penetrating the enchantments that conceal them.”

Harry subsided into his chair, gnawing his lip in frustration. He was sick of this endless, circular conversation that never seemed to accomplish anything. They had been staring at that map for four agonizing days and had no more idea where to find his friends today than they had the night they disappeared. All the people he loved most in this world were in Voldemort’s hands, and the best he could do for them was to sit in Dumbledore’s office, staring at a map, arguing about the Dark Lord’s peculiar vanities.

“What do you think, Headmaster?” Snape asked, cutting across McGonagall’s ongoing insistence that the missing students were at the Ministry.

Dumbledore regarded the map for a moment, then said quietly, “If I had to choose now, with the information we have, I would say Azkaban.”

“It’s an obvious place to hold prisoners,” Snape agreed, “but needs a large force to defend. It’s built to keep wizards in, not out.”

“And he’s imprisoned a number of our allies there, already,” McGonagall pointed out. “If we attack the prison, they become a liability to Voldemort. Either he ties up his forces guarding them, or he surrenders them to us and they fight on our side.”

“I strongly suspect that is where we’re headed,” Dumbledore said.

“Then why not move now?”

“Because we don’t know for certain, and if we’re wrong, we show our hand too soon.”

“You’ve sent spies?”

“I have.” He smiled tiredly. “No word yet.”

“So we continue to wait,” Snape said, his voice sour.

“We can’t wait!” Harry protested. “He could be doing _anything_ to them! Torturing them, giving them to the dementors… Remember what he did to Cedric? What if he only needed Draco, and the others are just ‘ _spares_ ’ that he can kill for fun?”

Dumbledore’s eyes rested on Harry, quelling his outburst. “It is possible that they’re dead by now, or beyond our help. But I don’t believe Voldemort took all those hostages simply to get his hands on Mr. Malfoy. If it were one or two—Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, for example—I would assume he needed them to lure Draco into a trap, but eleven? Pureblood and Muggle-born alike? Some of them virtual strangers to you? No.”

The old wizard steepled his fingers and tapped them thoughtfully against his lips. “He has a use for these children. He may be doing unspeakable things to them, as we sit here, but he will not waste them.”

“Even the Muggle-borns?” Harry whispered, thinking of Hermione dying in a flash of green light and Voldemort laughing as she fell.

Again, Dumbledore fixed him with that wise, weary gaze. A smile that was both infinitely kind and terribly sad lifted his lips. “I cannot promise you that any of us will survive what’s coming, Harry.”

Harry pushed his fingertips up behind his glasses and pressed them to his closed eyelids, struggling to hold in his growing panic. Dumbledore had elevated him to the status of equal partner and full combatant in this crisis, included him in every council, shared his thoughts and fears and strategies with him. This should have made him feel grown up and powerful. Instead, it had only increased his frustration as he realized that the adults he trusted to save his friends knew no more than he did. They were all in the same boat, but they were still rudderless.

McGonagall picked up a scrap of parchment and read it, frowning. She’d opened her mouth to offer yet another argument, when a loud knock on the door forestalled her.

“Come in!” Dumbledore called.

The door swung open, and Mad-Eye Moody clumped through it. He held a scroll in one hand and kept both eyes—normal and magical—glued to the Headmaster.

“This just arrived, Albus.” He thrust the scroll into Dumbledore’s hand. “It was marked Urgent and the blasted owl nearly bit off my finger when I tried to check it for spells.”

Snape, McGonagall and Harry all shifted forward in their chairs, eager for news, while Dumbledore broke the seal and unrolled the small piece of parchment. He scanned the few lines scrawled across it, then rose to his feet.

“Madam Fox requests my immediate presence.”

Moody smirked, his magical eye rolling down to peer at the scroll in Dumbledore’s hand. “Tells you to get your stringy, old carcass to St. Mungo’s, and no argument about it.”

“Thank you, Alastor, I can read as well as you. Minerva, I leave the school in your capable hands until I return.”

“You’re going _now?_ ” Snape demanded, on his feet as well and glaring at Dumbledore in outrage. “What can a healer at St. Mungo’s have to say that’s more important than the lives of eleven students?”

“I won’t know ’til I hear it.” He stepped around the desk and strode toward the door, tossing over his shoulder, “I shouldn’t be long, but if you hear from any of our searchers, take whatever action you deem necessary. I will support you. And Harry,” he stopped in the doorway, turned, and fixed his most compelling gaze on the startled boy, “please be patient.”

With that, he was gone, and Harry was left to stare at the closed door in mingled hope and apprehension, wondering what new horror was being visited upon them.

*** *** ***

Ron had thought that he could not feel colder or more despairing than he had in his dungeon cage. Then he’d found himself in this cell and realized how wrong he had been. It had a single, small window, set high in the wall where Ron could not reach it, that opened onto a bleak, grey sky. The wind whistle brutally through the stone box of his cell, stirring the rotten straw that strewed the floor, slicing through his robes to lash his shivering flesh. He huddled on a rough ledge, padded with yet more dirty straw, that served him as a bed and watched the sullen flame of the torches in the passage whip sideways with every gust. But it was not the wind or the stone or his bare feet and thinly-clad arms that reduced Ron to this pitiful, trembling, cowering state. It was the dementors.

He hadn’t thought about it, while shut in his miserable cage, listening to Draco being slowly tortured, but he now realized that the dungeon had been blessedly free of dementors. Perhaps You-Know-Who needed them elsewhere. Or perhaps he wanted to protect the baby from their malignant, soul-destroying presence. Whatever the reason, they had not ventured near enough to the dungeon that Ron could feel them. But now…

Now they were all around him, drifting up and down the passages, lurking outside the bars of his cell, flying past his window and throwing their grim shadows across his cringing body. They sucked all light and warmth from the world. They drove him deep into his mind, to the place where guilt and despair lived. They forced him to watch, again and again, as Bellatrix Lestrange hacked off Draco’s hand and held it up in triumph, as Voldemort cut into Draco’s body while the Slytherin screamed in agony and blood ran hot and red over the table top. They forced him to imagine the battle to come, to see the spells flying and the bodies falling. Harry. Hermione. Ginny. His parents, his brothers, his friends. All throwing themselves into Voldemort’s path to undo the terrible thing he’d done, all suffering and screaming and dying. He wept at the sight, and it seemed as if the spirits of all the wizards who had sobbed out their lives in this terrible place wept with him, swelling his voice and filling him with their pain.

He wanted to get up and pace his cell, to keep his blood circulating, but he had no will to move anymore. The end was coming, very soon, and he would welcome it. He only hoped that it would come quickly for all of them, that Harry and Draco and the others wouldn’t suffer any more than they already had. And that little Iffy would never know what she had missed. Maybe, if she never heard the name Harry Potter, she’d never realize what her life could have been if her father had found her in time. Poor Iffy. Poor Ferret. And poor Harry, to lose them both so soon!

He began to weep again, the tears freezing on his cheeks and frosting his lashes.

* * *

Draco was not shivering. He’d read somewhere that this was dangerous—that when a person got so cold they stopped shivering, they were close to death—but he’d also read that freezing to death was painless, and that was obviously wrong. So maybe the business about shivering was wrong, too, and he wasn’t dying. Yet. Maybe he had hours or days still to endure before he escaped this frozen hell.

He lay curled on his side on a stone shelf, clutching his truncated arm against his slashed belly, his knees pulled up tightly against them both and his eyes… he didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed. He couldn’t feel his eyelids for the gore that clogged them and he couldn’t see, except when the dementors came. Then the images crowded into his brain, try as he might to drive them back, and he would turn his face into the stone beneath him and heave with dry sobs. He had no tears to shed.

When the dementors moved on, their peculiar brand of cold eased, but Draco’s agony did not. He lay deathly still, his sobs quieted, but his pain redoubled as the shadows the dementors brought faded and his own memories, his own hopes rushed in to replace them.

He thought of his daughter—a fragile, little life that he had never dreamt of creating and now would never know—and he ached to hold her just once. To hear her cry for him just once.

He thought of Harry—beautiful, warm, passionate, infinitely forgiving Harry—and the need to see him again burned like molten lead in his chest. He thought of Harry taking him in his arms, warming him with his body, holding him while he slept, and the cold around him intensified. He thought of Harry’s laughter, his teasing nicknames, his affectionate insults, followed by outpourings of romantic nonsense and passion that sent Draco’s defenses up in flames. He thought of the nights they had spent together, lying in each other’s arms under the stars or enjoying each other by the fire in the Room of Requirement, and he knew that he had squandered those perfect moments. He had let Harry love him, then he had let him walk away without telling him the truth.

Now it was too late. He had used up all his chances. He would die without ever telling Harry Potter that he loved him.

The pain was too much to bear is silence. Sobs shook him and tears of blood trickled sluggishly down his face, but they gave him no relief. In the depths of his despair, all he could do was whisper Harry’s name like a shield against the darkness.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

 


	8. Voldemort's Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narcissa decides where her loyalties lie. Dumbledore and Harry prepare for the final battle.

****Dumbledore walked down a long, dark, wood-paneled corridor to a door at its far end. A small, brass plaque on the door identified it as the office of Iphigenia Fox, Head of the Spell Damage ward. He did not pause, but pushed straight through the door and into the room beyond.

Two women turned at the sound of his entrance. One was small, thin and sharp-faced, looking like a cross between Minerva McGonagall and Petunia Dursley. The other was tall, regal in bearing, with sweeping blonde hair and a haughty expression on her lovely face. She held a small bundle of dark fabric in her arms, half hidden against her black robe.

Dumbledore checked in surprise on the threshold, then he stepped into the room and very deliberately closed the door.

"Narcissa," he said, wary eyes fixed on the blonde woman's face, "what an unexpected pleasure."

Madam Fox waved a hand in Narcissa's direction and said, "This is why I sent for you, Albus."

"So I gathered." He moved closer to Narcissa, his wand in his hand, his eyes never leaving her face. She instinctively stepped back and tightened her grip on the object she held. Dumbledore couldn’t be quite sure, difficult as it was to see its contours, but it seemed to him that the bundle moved. “What can I do for you, Narcissa?”

Mrs. Malfoy seemed to struggle with herself, as if regretting the impulse that had brought her here. After a tense moment, she spoke, her voice harsh with strain and her words clipped short. “My son is the prisoner of the Dark Lord.”

Dumbledore nodded. “He and several others.”

Another brief struggle and she ground out, “You promised to protect him. When you… took him from me, humiliated me in front of the Wizengamot, forced me into hiding…”

“Saved him from Lord Voldemort’s vengeance?”

“ _You promised to protect him._ ”

“I tried. I am still trying, but your master has other plans for him.”

“I know all about his plans,” she snarled, her lips drawn back in a grimace of mingled pain and rage. “That’s why I’m here. I want you to stop him—stop the Dark Lord once and for all—and bring my son home.”

Silver brows rose over cold, sceptical, blue eyes. “Home to Hogwarts? Or home to you?”

She swallowed audibly and lifted her chin another proud notch. “Both.”

“That is not possible, my dear.”

“It is, if you take me with you to Hogwarts.”

His brows rose even higher, and a disbelieving smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Why would I do anything so patently foolish?”

“You offered your protection to anyone who asks for it. Well, I am asking, Dumbledore. Will you deny me what you’ve given to half of Wizarding Britain, simply because you despise my husband and son?”

“I will deny you, because you forfeited all right to my help when you betrayed Draco.”

“I did not!” she cried, tears starting in her eyes. “I only wanted…”

“To get him away from me and Harry Potter at any cost,” Dumbledore finished for her, his voice hard as adamant. He let those words lie between them for a long moment, then went on in a calmer, less accusatory tone, “The last time you had to choose between your son and your master, you chose Voldemort. What’s changed?”

“The Dark Lord is destroying him!” Narcissa sobbed. “My beautiful son! He is using him, torturing him, all to strike at you and Potter! I can’t watch it anymore! I can’t…” She clenched her eyes tightly shut against the tears that now seeped through her lashes and said, fiercely, “All any of you want is to use him. I want to save him. _I want to save him!_ ”

Dumbledore’s voice was infinitely sad when he replied, “I wish I could believe that, Narcissa. You have no idea how much.”

“I’ll prove it to you. I’ll give you the Dark Lord’s greatest weapon, the thing he treasures above all else. I’ll give you the power to destroy him.”

“In exchange for refuge at Hogwarts?” She gave a jerky nod. “Show me this weapon.”

Under Dumbledore’s frowning eyes, she shifted her hold on the bundle she held, freeing one hand, and pulled back a loop of fabric to expose, quite literally, the last thing he had expected to see. It was a face—tiny and flawless—the face of an infant with porcelain white skin, a sheen of silver-gilt hair forming an elegant widow’s peak in the center of its forehead, nearly colorless brows arched above closed eyes, and crystalline lashes resting on smooth, pale cheeks.

Dumbledore found himself looking at a perfect copy of Draco Malfoy lying in his mother’s arms. His mouth sagged open in shock, and for once in his long, brilliant career, he was completely bereft of words.

“A child?” he asked, finally finding his voice. “Voldemort’s weapon is a child?”

“Draco’s child. And Harry Potter’s. Her name is Lily.” Naricissa held her out toward him, as if pleading with him to believe. “That’s what Draco called her.”

“Lily Potter,” Dumbledore breathed, his eyes never leaving the tiny face. “Harry’s daughter.”

Madam Fox made a sour noise in her throat, breaking the magic of the moment. “It’s all very well and good to name her after Potter’s mum, but it doesn’t change the facts. There is no way that Harry Potter fathered that child, because there is no way that Draco gave birth to her. She’s Draco’s daughter, right enough—any fool can see that—but who’s the mother I’d like to know? And what has your master done with her, Narcissa?”

“ _Draco_ is her mother!” Narcissa snarled, pulling Lily close again. “If carrying a child in your body and giving birth to it in blood and pain makes you a mother, then Draco is Lily’s mother! I watched it happen, watched as the Dark Lord tortured my son and planted another man’s child in his body, all so he could fashion a sword to hold at the throat of the Wizarding world—a sword made of the blood and bone of her greatest hero. That is all Draco is to any of you! A thing to be used and discarded, a way to tighten your hold on Harry Potter! But he’s not some old sack, to be cut open then tossed aside! He’s _my son!_ ”

Narcissa broke off and took a moment to master herself, while Dumbledore watched her in thoughtful silence. When she had swallowed her rage and schooled her features into their usual cold, disdainful expression, she went on, “The Dark Lord gave me the task of caring for his fragile, new weapon. He charged me to keep her safe, so that is what I’m doing. I’m giving her to you, Dumbledore. I want you to protect her, as you once swore to protect her _mother_.”

The last word was a challenge, a gauntlet flung at Dumbledore’s feet. He considered it, and the woman who had delivered, it for a long moment. Then he said, his tone unexpectedly cold, “Of course I will protect her, but first I need the truth. Why give her to me?”

“It’s what Draco would want.”

The old wizard showed no sign of softening at this. “I’m sure he would, but not so long ago, you were ready to let Draco die—or worse—to keep him away from me. Now you offer me his daughter? Why?”

Narcissa stared at him, while pain went through her in visible waves and tears rose in her eyes. After a brief struggle, she said, in a ghostly whisper, “He lied.”

“Voldemort?”

“Draco. He lied to the Dark Lord. He… called himself the whore of Hogwarts and said he’d given himself to so many boys that there was no telling whose child would come from his body.” The tears were coursing steadily down her cheeks, but she wept silently, refusing to acknowledge her grief. “My beautiful son told this ugly, degrading, _dangerous_ lie to protect Harry Potter. That’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That what you told the Wizengamot was true and there was no magic holding him. His hand was gone. You and Potter were far away. He was free to choose his own loyalties. But he looked straight into the Dark Lord’s eyes and told a lie that would cost him his life, if anyone believed it… for Harry Potter.”

“I’m glad you finally understand, my dear.”

“I understand that you’re his only hope. Take me and the baby to Hogwarts!” she demanded fiercely. “Shield us from the Dark Lord’s wrath! Then go get my son and _bring him home!_ ”

Dumbledore exchanged a thoughtful glance with Madam Fox, then asked, abruptly, “Where is he?”

“Azkaban. They’re all in Azkaban.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

He pondered her words for another minute, then held out his hands. “Give me the child.”

Narcissa obeyed with barely a moment’s hesitation. Dumbledore accepted the swaddled bundle, gazed down at the sleeping face framed in black fabric, then handed it to Madam Fox. The Healer took the baby and tucked it expertly into the crook of her arm, a smile flickering over her lined face for a moment before being replaced with a professional scowl.

“I’ll have to examine her to be sure, but she seems healthy enough.”

“Not here. You can come with us to Hogwarts.”

“‘Us’? You’re taking my niece with you?”

“I am.” He shot Narcissa a sharp look from beneath his lashes and held out a hand. “But not armed.”

She promptly laid her wand across his palm, then, to Dumbledore’s surprise, reached into her robe again and brought out yet another black bundle. Without a word, she thrust it out to him.

Dumbledore’s brows lifted as he took it from her and flipped back the wrapping to expose its contents. Candlelight struck an object that shone and glittered against the black fabric like a huge diamond, cut and polished into the shape of a human hand. Unutterably beautiful and, without the power to make it live, completely alien. Draco’s adamant hand.

The Headmaster gazed down at it, his features etched in lines of sadness. After a long moment, he freed one hand from the wrappings to touch the piece of magical sculpture he held, sliding his fingers over the flawless surface in a kind of caress, then he curved them around the wrist and lifted it from its wrappings.

Madam Fox stepped closer to examine it. “That’s certainly my nephew’s.” She touched a smear of red-brown near the truncated end. “Is that, as well?”

“I’m sure it is.” Dumbledore turned it to get a better look at something clinging to the smooth crystal and grimaced in distaste. “Whoever removed it was not gentle.”

“My sister,” Narcissa said in a ragged whisper, “Bellatrix. She cut it off. The Weasley boy tried to clean it, but…”

“Ron Weasley had Draco’s hand?”

“I don’t know where he got it, but I caught him with it, out of his cage. He was trying to use it as a wand to free Draco.” Tears spilled from her eyes again, painting bright streaks down her face.

“And instead of helping him, you… what?” Madam Fox demanded angrily. “Put him back in his cage? Took the hand? Took the _child?_ Ran away and left my nephew, _your son_ , in the hands of You-Know-Who? By all that’s holy, Narcissa! _What’s the matter with you?!_ ”

“I couldn’t bring them with me!” the younger woman wailed. “I didn’t want to leave them there, but Draco was so weak… I was afraid he’d die without the Dark Lord’s power to sustain him! He couldn’t walk, and Weasley had no wand, and I knew we’d only get caught and there would be no one left to find you. To bring you back for them. Take the hand, Dumbledore, and when you have Draco safe again, put it back. Make him whole. Give him to Potter, if that’s what he wants! Only save him and let him be with his child!”

Dumbledore gazed straight into her glazed, tear-drenched eyes for a long, burning moment, while Madam Fox shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and Narcissa gulped back her sobs. Finally, he reached over to cover her hand with his own, and his lined face softened.

“I will do my best, my dear.”

“Don’t be a fool, Albus,” Madam Fox growled. “You can’t trust her.”

Dumbledore gave her a swift smile and turned for the door, his hand now holding Narcissa by the elbow. “Come, Iphigenia. We must get back to Hogwarts and begin mustering our forces. Can I rely on you to get word to our supporters here at St. Mungo’s? We need every willing wand we can get.”

“You’re going after those children?” He nodded. “This is a terrible gamble. What if it’s a trap and Narcissa’s timely gifts are the bait?”

Dumbledore paused with his hand on the door latch and turned a quizzical look on her. “What if it is? Would you have me abandon those children to Voldemort?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That’s what I thought. He opened the door and guided Narcissa through it, shooting another smile over his shoulder at the scowling healer. “We’d best get on with it, hadn’t we? Come.”

The door closed firmly behind them.

*** *** ***

 _“Where is she?!_ ” Lord Voldemort towered over his cringing servants, blood-red eyes blazing and wand raised threateningly. “ _Where is the child?!_ ”

“Narcissa took her,” Bellatrix whispered, flinching when his gaze touched her. “She took her at your command, Lord.”

“Took her _where?!_ ”

“I do not know, my Lord. I haven’t seen her.”

“Where is the boy? Is he still in his cell?”

Wormtail ducked toward the door, his arms up to shield his head and face from the impending explosion, and whined, “I will go and see, Master. I will double the guard on him… Triple the locking spells…”

“Begone, vermin!” Voldemort slashed with his wand, sending a jet of red light burning over Wormtail’s head to splash against the wall. Stone flew from the point of impact, and Wormtail cried out in pain, as a fragment sliced across his cheek.

Wormtail disappeared into the dark passage, but the other Death Eaters crowded into the room had no excuse to run, and Voldemort was quickly working himself up into a killing rage. Some of them cowered against the walls, while others flattened themselves on the floor. Only Bellatrix stayed close to her master, but she was poised, ready to duck and run in an instant.

“If your carelessness has lost me both the child and the boy, I will torture you all into madness! I will bring this prison down upon your heads! I will tear your guts from your bodies and burn them to ash before your eyes! Why did you not watch her?” he snarled, rounding on Bellatrix. “Why did you not perceive her treachery?”

“I trusted her, Lord. We _all_ trusted her! She has been loyal to you, I swear it!” Bellatrix looked shiftily about at the other Death Eaters. “Perhaps it wasn’t Narcissa. Perhaps someone else tempted her… or forced her…”

Voldemort uttered a blood-curdling scream of rage and sent power gushing recklessly from his wand to fill the chamber with bloody light. The bodies huddled all around it cringed and ducked, some edging toward the door, only to have the Dark Lord fire a bolt at the threshold and block the opening with flames. Voices cried out in fear and uttered fervent promises that they had done nothing to aid the traitor, nothing to undermine their master’s plans.

In the middle of this chaos, Wormtail returned. He stood outside the door, calling through the wall of flame, “He is here, Master! The Malfoy boy is in his cell!”

Voldemort instantly stopped raging. He banished the flames and gestured for Wormtail to approach. “That has saved you for the moment, but Lord Voldemort will not forget your cowardice and carelessness. Who saw Narcissa last? And Where?”

“She took the child from the dungeon,” Rodolphus called, from his place on the floor. “I saw her on the stairs.”

“I saw her bathing the child,” another black-robed figure said.

“And then?” Voldemort demanded. “ _Then?_ ” No one answered, and he lifted his wand again. “I will find her and the child. I will not allow one weak-minded woman to destroy all my plans. But in the meantime, we must assume that she has betrayed us and Potter is coming. Up! All of you, up!”

The Death Eaters scrambled to their feet and edged toward the door, away from Voldemort’s wand.

“We have little time. Bellatrix, make sure that your nephew is still alive and well-guarded. Without the child, he is our best weapon against Potter, and _I must have him._ His life is your responsibility.”

“Yes, Lord!” she cried, eyes alight with pride and devotion. “I will not fail you!”

“The rest of you, bring the children I selected to the graveyard. Wormtail, you fetch the Mudblood. Go! Now!”

They scattered, pushing through the door, grateful to be spared the Dark Lord’s wrath for the present and anxious to do his bidding. Voldemort strode out last, his snake-like face impassive, but a potent mixture of rage and anticipation rolling off of him in waves. Potter was coming, the stars were aligned, and victory would soon be his.

*** *** ***

Harry gazed down at the child cradled inexpertly in his arms, then up at Dumbledore, his face a mask of befuddlement. If he’d bothered to look at the adults crowded into the hospital wing with him, he’d have seen that they all appeared as stunned and disbelieving as he felt, but his attention was fixed on the man he trusted to explain this shattering new development to him.

“I don’t understand.”

Dumbledore quirked half a smile at him. “Neither do I, entirely. But I think it’s safe to say that this is Draco Malfoy’s child.”

“Well, obviously,” Harry said, his exasperation putting an edge on his voice, “but how? And when? Even I know it takes nine months to make a baby, and nine months ago, Draco was in this castle with me, not off fathering children for Voldemort to steal! Are you telling me he got a Hogwarts student pregnant and none of us knew about it?”

“No.” Dumbledore now looked positively uncomfortable, as if this man who could face down the likes of Grindelwald at the height of his powers balked at the idea of explaining how a child was conceived. “Nothing of the kind.”

“Then where did it come from?”

“She. It’s a girl, and her name is Lily.” His gaze sharpened, pinning Harry with it’s familiar blade-like intensity. “Lily Potter.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Of course, we only have Narcissa Malfoy’s word on the name he chose, but I have no trouble believing that Draco would name your daughter Lily.”

“ _Narcissa Malfoy?!_ ” Harry bellowed in outrage, then glanced down anxiously to make sure he hadn’t woken the baby. In a fierce whisper, he hissed, “Where is she?! Is she _here?!_ ”

“Yes, under close guard. She brought the child to Madam Fox,” he nodded toward the old healer, who lurked at Harry’s elbow, as if afraid that he’d drop the baby at any moment, “as the person best fitted to intercede for her.”

“Which I didn’t,” Madam Fox snapped, “but I agree with Albus that the child belongs here with you. At least until we rescue my nephew and get to the bottom of this mess.”

“You… you don’t believe it’s his,” Harry ventured.

“Oh, she’s his, all right. What I don’t believe is that she’s _yours._ No offense, Potter, but even you couldn’t pull off this one.”

“Pull off what? Would someone,” he looked from Madam Fox, to Dumbledore, and then up at the row of eyes fixed on him, “please explain to me what in _bleeding hell_ is going on?”

It was Snape who answered him. Perhaps his deep-seated disdain for Harry and general dislike of children as a concept gave him enough distance on the matter to speak without embarrassment or circumlocution. Or perhaps he simply relished the opportunity to make Harry squirm. Either way, he was refreshingly blunt.

“Narcissa claims that Voldemort used a Fecundus Charm to impregnate Malfoy with your child. This is certainly possible, if you and Malfoy were engaging in your usual fun and games shortly before he went missing, but it is virtually impossible that he survived the experience. No wizard ever has. Nor any child, that we know of. However, she also claims that he tampered with the charm, using his considerable power to form the child in a matter of days, instead of months. This _might_ have allowed Malfoy to give birth to a living child and live through it, himself.

“While this all sounds a bit fanciful, there’s no arguing with the fact that we have a living child on our hands, who looks exactly like Malfoy and is only hours old. It had to come from somewhere, but we’re not yet ready to accept Narcissa’s explanation wholesale.”

“So,” Harry swallowed his own embarrassment and tried to reply in the same businesslike tone that Snape had used, “if Mrs. Malfoy is telling the truth, this baby is mine, and Voldemort made her.”

“Yours and Malfoy’s.”

“Mostly Malfoy’s, from the look of her.” He gazed down at the child again, trying to believe that she was real—and really his—but feeling only a vague bafflement. “Does she say that Draco is alive?”

“He was a few hours ago.”

Harry looked up to meet his hard, black eyes. “Do you believe her?”

“I don’t know. I want to, but I’m too well acquainted with the Dark Lord’s stratagems not to suspect a trick.”

Harry nodded his understanding. “He’s using Mrs. Malfoy and the baby to bring us running to the rescue.”

“Possibly. It’s also possible that Narcissa defied him, stole Draco’s child, and brought her here to protect her from the Dark Lord.” At Harry’s sceptical look, he smirked. “You may not like her, Potter, but she is the boy’s mother.”

“Nice of her to suddenly remember that.”

At that moment, the little creature in his arms stirred. She kicked against the fabric swaddling her, yawned, and stretched one arm out to grab blindly at nothing. Her fingers opened and closed like the petals of a flower, then curled into a plump fist and settled against her parted lips. Her eyes opened. They gazed up at Harry without seeing him.

“She’s got blue eyes!” Harry exclaimed. “Shouldn’t they be grey?”

Madam Fox clucked in an amused way and reached for the baby. “They’ll turn grey soon enough. Or green.”

“Grey,” Harry insisted. He instinctively turned to block her move, holding the baby a little more tightly. “They have to be grey.”

“We’ll see. Give her to me, now, Potter. She’ll want feeding soon, and I need to check her over.”

“No, she’s m— she’s Draco’s. He’d want me to look after her for him.”

“Be that as it may, you don’t have the first idea how to care for a baby, and you have other things to worry about right now.”

At a glance from Dumbledore, Harry reluctantly handed over the baby to Madam Fox and watched her carry her farther down the ward, Madam Pomfrey in tow.

“Do you believe Mrs. Malfoy?” he asked the Headmaster, his gaze still dwelling on the two women.

“I do, but underneath my cynical exterior, I’m a hopeless romantic.” Harry shot him a startled look, and the old wizard smiled wistfully at him. “I honestly don’t know if Draco gave birth to that beautiful child, but if he didn’t, I’m at a loss to explain where she came from. The only way to know for sure is to ask him.”

“Then, you believe he’s still alive.”

“I hope so.” Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder and went on, quietly, “Harry, my boy, you must be prepared for what we may find when we reach Draco. If Lily actually is your child, and he actually gave birth to her, he almost certainly died doing it.”

Harry swallowed painfully and looked away. “I understand.”

“I considered not telling you any of this—not letting you see Lily at all—until after the coming battle. I wanted you fully present and focused on the business at hand, not distracted by fears for Draco or his daughter. But in light of our agreement, I could not keep such a secret from you.”

“I needed to know. Even if it turns out she isn’t mine, she’s Draco’s, and that makes her part of me.” He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, and asked, “Is that why you told me? So I’d accept her as my daughter and come back for her, even if I lose Draco? Is she your way of forcing my hand?”

“Now, Harry, do you really think I’m that devious?”

“Yes.”

The blue eyes twinkled at him, but Dumbledore’s expression was a touch hurt. “If Draco dies, I devoutly hope that you’ll choose to stay with Lily instead of going with him. But no, I did not tell you for that reason. I promised not to manipulate you and, whatever my other failings, I am a man of my word. I would, however, point out—strictly in the spirit of full disclosure and not to pressure you—that Draco himself named her Lily Potter, committing her to your love and care. If you reject that burden and go where she cannot follow, you will be failing him, as well as his daughter.”

“Not that you want to pressure me, or anything,” Harry said dryly. Then, in a weary tone, he added, “I have to believe that none of this will matter. We’ll find Draco alive, he and I will be together, and we’ll both take care of his child.”

He turned to gaze down the ward once more, at the screen that hid the Healers and their tiny patient—Draco’s daughter. His daughter. Lily Potter.

“Not Lily Potter,” he suddenly blurted out, “Lily Potter _Malfoy_.”

A pleased smile lightened Dumbledore’s face. “Of course.”

“Draco said he was the last Malfoy, but he’s wrong.” Harry turned to look at the old wizard, his face blazing with hope and certainty. “Whatever else Lily is, no matter where she came from, she’s Draco’s daughter and that makes her a Malfoy.”

“Draco will be pleased.”

“Actually, he’ll pitch a fit, but I don’t care.” Harry grinned at the Headmaster with unfeigned delight. “I’m Perfect Bloody Potter, and I always get what I want.”

“Well then, my boy, it’s time go get what you want.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder and turned, briskly, for the door, motioning for everyone to follow him.

“We assault the island in two hours with whatever forces we can muster by then. Our supporters are arriving in Hogsmeade now. I’ve alerted my brother at the Hog’s Head that we’re using it as a command center. It’s more convenient than the castle, with our wards and Anti-Apparition charms in place.”

“Who will remain to organize the defense of the castle?” Snape asked, as he flapped along at Dumbledore’s side.

“Professor Flitwick, I think. He won’t thank me for it, but it is a position of the utmost importance. I can’t leave Hogwarts in less skilled hands.”

“Professor,” Harry ventured, as they started down the stairs to the entry hall, “some of the Seventh Year students have asked to go with us. Seamus and Dean want to help rescue our friends, and I’m sure there are others, from the other Houses. Vincent Crabbe, at least, ought to be allowed.”

“Huh,” Snape grunted, “Crabbe would be more of a liability than a help.”

“He’s better at defensive charms, now. He’s been practicing.”

Snape shot him a narrow look. “You’ve been letting Crabbe in on your private study sessions?”

Harry’s brows rose. “Of course. He’s Draco’s friend.”

“Any student seventeen or older may join us,” Dumbledore cut in, silencing their exchange. “I’ll need the Heads of House to collect all students in the Great Hall in ten minutes. Go now. We have no time to lose.”

McGonagall and Snape headed off in different directions, McGonagall pausing only long enough to send two Patronuses flying from the end of her wand. The misty, silver cats bounded through the walls and disappeared.

“Come, Harry.” Dumbledore drew him into the Great Hall and up toward the dais. “You belong up here, with me, today.”

“Professor, how are we going to get to Azkaban?”

“Apparate. I’ll take you with me, if you’re not confident in your skills, yet.”

“It’s not that. I was just wondering… aren’t there spells protecting the island? Anti-Apparition charms, like the ones here?”

“Not quite. Security on the island is quite complicated. Some day, I’ll explain it to you at length, but for the present, all you need to know is that I’ve sent Professor Moody ahead to infiltrate the island and break the charms. That’s why we’re on such a tight schedule. We have to coordinate our attack with his covert actions, or Voldemort will know we’re coming and ambush us as we appear.”

Harry swallowed nervously. “Okay.”

The first students were streaming into the Hall, muttering among themselves, then falling silent as they spotted Dumbledore and Harry at the high table. Harry watched their faces close up and their eyes turn suspicious. To his right, the door to the antechamber opened, and three teachers bustled through it.

“One more thing, Professor,” Harry murmured.

“Yes?”

“You said your brother was at the Hog’s Head…”

“Ah, yes. Aberforth. He’s the barman there.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me your brother was in Hogsmeade?”

“My brother prefers not to advertise the relationship. He is an entirely admirable person with a finely-honed sense of honor, and he has little patience with me.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled irrepressibly over the tops of his spectacles. “I applaud his good sense.”

Harry shut his mouth, at a loss for a response. It was too late for questions, anyway. The Hall was filling fast, and it was time to put everything out of his mind besides the battle to come.

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	9. Death By Pinecones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle. Dumbledore's forces come to Azkaban and Harry must face the Dark Lord. But he's not alone.

****They appeared in the graveyard—a ring of witches and wizards, wands out, eyes quartering the ground, with Harry and Dumbledore in the protected center. As his feet hit the ground and he caught his breath from the highly uncomfortable process of apparition, Harry looked around in amazement. This was Azkaban, home of his worst nightmares, the last place on Earth he wanted to be. A chill that had nothing to do with the wind slicing mercilessly off the North Sea gripped him and he shivered.

“Stay alert, Harry. And stay with me.” Dumbledore’s voice was as bleak and dangerous as Harry had ever heard it.

He nodded understanding, but his eyes dwelled on the building looming to their right. It was a prison—the countless barred windows set deep in its walls and the portcullis filling the arched doorway told him that—but it seemed to be cut from the very rock of the island, rather than built as a separate structure. This gave it an irregular shape and a ragged roofline, accentuated by the battlements that crowned it like broken teeth. It was grim and black and utterly without warmth. Now that he saw it, Harry could better understand how dementors came to be. This was exactly the sort of place that would breed such creatures. The very soil beneath his feet seemed to ooze dread and despair.

The prison nearly filled the tiny island, leaving only a narrow skirt of open ground around its feet. Harry knew that they were standing in a graveyard because Dumbledore had told him that was their destination, and because he saw a few drunken, weathered, pathetic headstones slumped here and there among the brambles and sere, brown grass. But he didn’t see how anyone could actually bury a body here. The layer of dirt couldn’t have been more than a foot or two thick—just enough earth to allow patchy grass to grow and wind-twisted pine trees to cling precariously to its surface. Considering how many prisoners must have died in this horrible place and been hidden under a thin scraping of soil, Harry guessed that he was walking on powdered bones with every step. He shuddered and looked away from the nearest headstone, not wanting to know who it commemorated.

Suddenly, a handful of silver Patronuses came flying down to land at Dumbledore’s feet and spoke in the different voices of the wizards who had sent them. Harry recognized the lynx and the weasel as belonging to Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley.

“We are here!” they chorused.

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said to his waiting companions, “it’s time to move. Severus, if you would?”

Snape nodded and gestured to a group of wizards standing to either side of him. They had taken only a step toward the louring prison, when a high, cruel, shrieking laugh rang out. It seemed to fill the air and swirl around the invaders on the very wind, magically magnified until it beat physically against their eardrums. In the same instant, pain seared viciously through Harry’s scar, making him cry out and clap his hand to his forehead, though he knew it was a useless gesture. Nothing would ease the pain but putting distance between himself and Voldemort, but his whole purpose in being here was to get closer. Much, much closer.

Through watering eyes, Harry looked around for the source of that hideous laughter. He saw dark figures materializing around them, drawing in from the rocky shoreline and pouring out of the prison—Death Eaters, dementors, and wizards who had thrown their lot in with the Dark Lord but not yet earned a place among his chosen ranks—but no Voldemort.

Patronuses erupted from the wand of every person standing in the ring. Dumbledore produced an enormous shield spell that halted the oncoming attackers as if they’d run headfirst into a brick wall. But still the laughter lashed at them, and still Harry could not find the source.

“Where…?” he gasped, one hand still pressed to his forehead, fighting for control over the shattering pain.

Dumbledore pointed upward. Harry followed his gesture to see a lone figure poised on the battlements above. It was tall and thin, robed in black, its hood thrown back and it’s arms lifted. It held a wand in one bone-white hand. Voldemort. And with that certainty, Harry felt a sudden lessening of the pain in his scar. It was still there, still trying to split his skull open and spill his brains on the brittle grass, but he could push it away. Ignore it. He straightened up and turned his gaze on his quarry.

Voldemort threw back his hairless head and uttered another peal of laughter. “How predictable you are, Dumbledore! Always the hero! Always the fool!”

Dumbledore spoke without shifting his gaze from Voldemort’s distant figure. “Go, Severus. The rest of you, draw them from the fortress.”

On his orders, Snape and six others broke for the prison, running hard. The others scattered, their Patronuses moving ahead of them, light spitting from their wands, to meet Voldemort’s forces. Dumbledore’s shield charm evaporated and the two groups of fighters came together in a sudden storm of light and power.

Harry watched the fighting begin, one eye still on Voldemort who had not moved from his lofty perch. “How do we get him down?”

Before the old wizard could answer, they heard another bloodcurdling scream, but this one did not come from the battlements, and it was not Voldemort making it. Harry instantly recognized the voice.

“ _Hermione!_ ” he bellowed, and launched himself toward the sound.

It was coming from a cluster of ragged pines at the far end of the graveyard. He couldn’t see anyone among the trees, but he knew it was Hermione screaming and knew that only one thing could force such sounds from a human throat. The Cruciatus Curse. Voldemort was torturing one of his best friends to lure him into some sort of trap. He knew it, but he also knew that his only choice was to spring it.

The screams went on. Panic lightened Harry’s heels. He ran flat out, dodging other moving bodies and flying spells, and Dumbledore ran with him, easily keeping pace. They passed the last headstone and crashed through a screen of brambles into the trees. Then, abruptly, Dumbledore caught Harry’s arm and pulled him to a stop.

“Wait.”

Harry looked wildly around. They stood among a scattering of tall, bare, gaunt trunks, with a carpet of dead grass and desiccated pinecones underfoot. Twenty paces away, Hermione stood against the trunk of a particularly large tree, bound to with shining, black ropes. She gave no sign that she knew rescue had come, but writhed and shuddered and wept so that her face was slick with tears. And the screams kept coming.

Harry watched this for a handful of seconds, then tore free of Dumbledore’s grip and flung himself toward the tree.

 _“No, Harry!_ ” Hermione howled, forcing the words out of her torn, tortured throat.

In the same moment, Dumbledore called sharply, “ _Wait!_ ”

Harry didn’t know if it was the habit of trusting Hermione or of obeying Dumbledore that stopped him dead in his tracks, but something did. He froze, one hand outstretched, his face contorted with rage and distress, while Hermione sobbed “It’s a trap! It’s a trap!”

Dumbledore strode past him, into the bare patch of grass that separated them from Hermione. He paused, looked around him with his wand raised, then took another step closer to her.

There was a sudden explosion of power that threw Harry backward, tossing him against a tree trunk and nearly knocking his wand from his hand. He heard Voldemort laughing again, from much closer this time, and Hermione sobbing. Then he blinked to clear his vision and saw the trap that Dumbledore had sprung.

The little clearing that had appeared empty just a moment before was full of bodies. Eight children, all unconscious, lay in two neat rows with streams of glittering wizarding power flowing out of their chests to form a kind of cage that hovered an inch or two above their upturned faces. Dumbledore stood in the cage. He still held his wand, but it hung at his side, and the eyes that studied the shimmering bars of his prison were bleak.

“Professor Dumbledore!” Harry called, starting toward him.

“Stay back, Harry!”

“Look out,” Hermione shrieked, “ _look out!_ ” Then a jet of green light flew over Harry’s shoulder and struck her in the chest. Her words dissolved once more into helpless, terrible screams of agony.

Harry spun around, his wand coming up, and saw Voldemort pacing over the grass toward him.

* * *

Ron heard the first screams and threw himself at the wall of his cell, scrabbling to reach the high window and sobbing furiously, “Hermione! _Hermione!_ ”

He got his fingers over the lip of the window, but he could not drag himself up to it. He flailed and kicked, tearing his knees on the rough stone, then fell back to the floor, still sobbing and shouting. No one answered him or came to investigate. The dementors were nowhere near and, from the sound of it, all the Death Eaters were busy outside. Now was the time to break out, if there ever was one, but he had no wand with which to spell open the locks. Not even Malfoy’s adamant hand. He was stuck in this foul cell, while Hermione was screaming for help and Ferret was freezing to death, and Harry was…

Harry was here. That much was obvious. He probably had Dumbledore with him, and McGonagall and Snape, and the Order wizards and Rons’ parents… His parents were just on the other side of that wall…

Staggering to his feet, Ron threw himself at the wall again, shouting at the top of his lungs, “ _Mum! Dad! I’m in here! Here!_ ”

Once again, he tried to haul himself up to the window sill, and once again, his weakened state betrayed him. He collapsed to the floor, but he didn’t stay there. Scrambling for the door, he strained against the bars and called until his throat was raw,

“Help! Someone help! Get me out and let me _fight!_ ”

He heard feet pounding on stone and briefly considered that he was making a mistake—bringing Death Eaters down on his head—but in the next instant decided that he didn’t care. If a bleeding Death Eater got near him now, he’d crack his skull and take his wand!

“I’m here!” he bellowed. “Come get me! _Come on, you bastards!_ ”

A figure appeared at the end of the passage and strode toward him, black robes flapping like crow’s wings. Ron watched him for a stunned moment, then shoved an arm through the bars and reached toward him.

“Professor Snape!”

“Weasley?” Snape flapped up to his door. Without pausing for questions, he waved his wand at the lock. The door flew open and Ron stumbled through it. To his surprise, Snape actually put out a hand to steady him. “Are you injured?”

“No, just cold. And I need a wand.”

“You don’t need a wand,” the Potions Master snapped, with a return to his usual caustic manner. “You need to get to an evacuation point. Your brothers are helping me clear the prison, and they’ll be delighted to escort you.”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Ron protested, drawing himself up angrily and looking, though he didn’t know it, unexpectedly impressive in his ragged, filthy robes and bare feet. “I’m going to fight! That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To fight You-Know-Who?”

“Yes, but you’ve done your part,” Snape replied, sounding almost sympathetic.

“Let me help you find the others. Malfoy’s somewhere over th…”

Snape pounced on his words, grabbing him by an arm and almost shouting, “You know where Malfoy is? Show me!”

Ron obediently started walking the end of the passage. “Not exactly, but I saw the guards taking him this way.”

“He was alive when you saw him?!”

“Yeah, but he was in pretty rough shape. They…” he swallowed painfully, “did some things…”

“We know about that,” Snape said, grimly.

“You do?” Ron shot him a startled look. They had reached the end of the passage, and he hesitated, trying to picture the moment when his guards had dragged him off toward his cell, leaving Malfoy lying like a broken doll in the arms of a huge Death Eater.

“Which way?” Snape demanded.

Ron pointed to his right. “That way, then another right at the end. After that, I couldn’t see.”

Snape led the way, almost running to the end of the short passage and the second right turn. They found themselves in a long, stone hallway identical to the one that housed Ron’s cell, with barred openings at regular intervals down either side. The cells on the left had windows that let in chill, grey light and the sounds of battle. The ones on the right were dark, dank and even colder than the others.

Waving at the lighter cells on the left, Snape said, “Check those. I’ll take the other side.”

Then he started off down the passage, his eyes scanning the cells. They had gone less than half the length of hallway when Snape called, “Here!” and lunged toward a cell. Ron followed, dropping to a crouch in front the bars and gripping them ’til his knuckles whitened.

“Ferret?”

Draco lay on the stone shelf that passed for a bed, his head close to the bars, his body drawn into a tight, protective huddle. He was naked, and what little of his skin was not stained black with blood showed deathly pale in the flat, grey light filtering in from the opposite cell. He did not move, did not even shiver, and for a heart-stopping moment, Ron was sure that he was dead.

“Get back, Weasley,” Snape growled, brandishing his wand. Light spat out of it, striking the lock, and Ron scrambled back to give him room to open the door. Stepping swiftly into the cell, Snape bent over the still, white form.

“Is he dead?” Ron whispered.

“No, but close.” Snape unfastened the clasp of his heavy, black cloak and swung it off his shoulders. Then he spread it over Malfoy, tucking it carefully around him.

“Ferret,” Ron murmured, moving back up to the bars and reaching through them to touch the mop of tangled, filthy, silver-blond hair. “Don’t do this to me, mate. Not when Harry’s right outside.”

“He’s nearly frozen.” Snape waved his wand again, and a puff of warmth rose from the cloak.

“Severus!”

The call came from the far end of the corridor. Ron glanced up to see his twin brothers sprinting its length toward them, and he broke out in a relieved smile.

“Fred! George!” he cried, bounding to his feet.

“Ickle Ronnikins!” George bellowed, pulling him into a quick, fierce hug, then passing him to George for more of the same treatment.

“We didn’t expect to find you in one piece!” Fred said, as he hugged Ron, then set him back on his feet. Waving toward the cell where Snape still crouched, he asked, “Who’ve we got here?”

“Malfoy.”

The twins produced identical grimaces, and George muttered, “That’s one we can leave for the dementors.”

Snape straightened up and stepped out of the cell, his fiercest scowl on his face. “Have you found anyone else?”

“No students,” Fred answered, ignoring Snape’s hostile look. “Just a couple of real prisoners, and some of ours that we’d written off as dead. We left the prisoners in their cells and evacuated the others.”

“Here’s another one you can evacuate.” He grabbed a fistful of Ron’s robe and thrust him toward his brothers. “Get him to the Healers, then continue your sweep.”

“No! I’m going to…” Ron began, only to be silenced by Snape.

“You’ll do as you’re told, for once in your miserable life! Get him out of here.”

Fred jerked his head toward Malfoy’s still form. “What about him?”

“I’ll take care of Malfoy.”

The twins nodded and began marching Ron away, seemingly only too glad not to be saddled with the despised Draco Malfoy, as well. Ron craned his neck to look back and saw Snape go back into the cell. Then he was headed down a flight of stone steps, and he lost sight of his friend.

His brothers, usually so full of wickedness and laughter, were unusually grim as they strode through the prison. They said little to Ron and spoke to each other in tight, worried mutters. Ron tried to engage them in conversation, to find out what was happening, but they spared him no more than a frowning glance or two and a rote assurance that they would get him safely away.

“I don’t _want_ to get away!” Ron shouted in desperation. “I want to _fight!_ ”

“You haven’t got a wand,” George pointed out reasonably, which only upset Ron more, coming from one of the least reasonable members of his family.

“And you’ve been imprisoned for days,” Fred added in the same infuriating tone. “You need a healer and a warm bed.”

“I need to save my friends! What about Malfoy? You just left him there!”

“With Snape,” Fred pointed out, “the one person on our side who actually cares what happens to the little sod.”

“I care,” Ron snapped, “and Harry cares!”

At that moment, they stepped out of a deep, sunken doorway and into the thin sunlight. The sound of battle was all around them. Ron looked up to see groups of figures in every color of robe, moving in some kind of brutal dance, while flashes of light flew between them and power hung like smoke in the air. A dementor drifted past them. Ron reached instinctively for the wand he didn’t have. Fred and George moved in perfect tandem, lifting their wands and sending Patronuses flowing from the tips. The two creatures—some animal that Ron didn’t recognize in the brief glance he got—raced off after the dementor.

“Come on then,” George said, catching Ron’s arm and pulling him away from the building toward the near shore of the island.

Then Hermione screamed.

Ron’s entire body stiffened. His head came up sharply. His eyes flew to the north end of the island, past the prison and the mangy graveyard with its few, pitiful headstones. She screamed again, the sound cutting the thick air like a knife. Ron uttered a tearing sob and took off running toward the sound.

* * *

“Break the spell, Dumbledore, by all means!” Voldemort taunted.

He paced toward the clearing, his bare feet crunching on the dead grass and his long robe hissing along behind him. He smiled, his lipless, snake-like face stretching grotesquely, and his red eyes shone with triumph. Harry felt the pain in his scar prickle, trying to force its way into his immediate consciousness, but he ignored it.

“You can do it handily, I’m sure, and all it will cost you is the lives of eight children.” He gave a high, cackling laugh. “These children you prize so highly. These children you swore to protect. What are their lives worth to you now?”

Harry turned to look at the bodies laid out so neatly on the grass and felt his stomach clench in horror. He recognized them as the students taken from Hogwarts—the two Hufflepuff girls, Justin and Padma, Luna, Neville, Colin. And closest to him, her hand lying palm up on the grass not six inches from his foot, was Ginny Weasley. Ron was not there, and neither was Draco. Harry allowed himself half a second to wonder if this was a good thing or a bad, then he resolutely shut his mind to all thought of his missing lover and his friend to concentrate on the matter at hand. Voldemort.

Dumbledore was looking around at the cage that held him and the flow of power from the unconscious students. He touched one hand against the scintillating barrier, then drew quickly back.

“Professor, don’t!” Harry cried.

The fierce, brilliant, blue eyes met his through the wall of the cage, full of understanding and sadness. He made no move to lift his wand. “It’s up to you, Harry.”

“Up to _you_ ,” Voldemort gloated, “up to _you_ to die for _him!_ You’re a fool, Harry Potter, if you think this old schemer would ever risk his skin or his reputation for you!”

Harry backed against the nearest tree, his wand up and his mind racing. He had always known that it would come to this—standing alone against Voldemort—but he still had no clue how to actually kill the Dark Lord. All the spells he’d ever learned spooled through his head, while his hands shook and his mouth went dry. He wasn’t afraid of death, not really, not with Draco likely gone before him, but he didn’t want to go without finishing the job. _His_ job. It had always been his job, since that night in Godric’s Hollow, when Voldemort had killed his parents and marked him as his mortal enemy. He just needed to figure out how to do it and he was running out of time.

“Stand and face me, Harry,” Voldemort hissed, looking more than ever like a snake on two legs. “It’s just the two of us, now. No mother throwing her body between us. No Dumbledore to shield you. No _love_ to protect you.”

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and edged slightly away from the tree, away from the bodies in the grass, and closer to Voldemort.

Voldemort’s smile widened hideously. “I’ve seen to that, haven’t I, Harry Potter? I’ve taken your love, tortured it, twisted it to serve my ends, and spilled the blood demanded by the stars. Now they fight for me.”

“The belief in portents is a weakness,” Harry croaked out.

Voldemort cackled wildly. “ _Love_ is a weakness! Giving your heart and yourself to another human being is a weakness! You gave yourself to Lucius Malfoy’s son and gave me my greatest weapon in the process.”

“Lily isn’t a weapon. She’s a child,” Harry insisted, glad to hear that his voice was steady.

Voldemort moved to his right, circling Harry and forcing him to turn, but still more interested in talking that in fighting. “So you do have her. Excellent. When I’ve killed you, killed this pathetic old man, I’ll find the child and take her back. I’ll raise her in my image, and when the time comes, put Harry Potter’s child at the head of an army to crush the Muggle world, once and for all. How fitting that your blood will endure to torment the very creatures you sought to defend! I will rule a race of pureblood wizards, with my _daughter_ at my side, while you and your crawling catamite are forgotten!”

“Where is Draco?” Harry demanded.

“Alive. Oh, yes, he’s still alive. You thought I’d killed him, didn’t you?” He laughed again, a sound like the screech of broken glass on metal. “I won’t give him up that easily. Think of it, Potter… your beloved tossed naked in a dank cell, his body torn and plundered, his beauty destroyed, his mind sunk in the black despair the dementors breathe… would you like to see him? Would you like to _join_ him? Lay down your wand, and I will take you to him. I may even let you comfort him, if I’m feeling merciful. If not, you’ll die first, and I’ll send him screaming after you.”

Even as he savored this threat on his tongue, Voldemort flicked his wand, and a jet of emerald light shot from it. Harry had been staring intently into his eyes, hearing and suffering under his words but refusing to be distracted by them, and he saw the plan to attack forming there. He was ready.

As the spell flew at him, he dropped and rolled, coming to his feet again closer to the graveyard and open ground, his wand up. Voldemort howled with laughter. Harry fired a stunning spell at him that he deflected with casual ease.

“Acrobatics will not save you, Potter!”

Harry sent another simple spell in his direction, while he looked frantically around him for inspiration. There was nothing—nothing but ragged pine trees, dead grass, brittle pinecones and crumbling headstones. The rest of the battle had drawn closer, as friends and enemies alike realized that the Dark Lord was among them and Harry Potter facing off alone against him. No one wanted to miss this final confrontation. But as with his fear for Draco, Harry pushed that awareness to the back of his mind and forced himself to concentrate. Stay focused. _Think_.

Voldemort fired another spell at him that he dodged by stepping behind a tree. It wasn’t a Killing Curse, which Harry found odd. The Dark Lord seemed to be toying with him. Or perhaps he’d warmed to the idea of tossing Harry into a cell with Draco and watching them die together, so he couldn’t kill Harry out of hand.

Another curse slammed into the tree trunk, breaking in a splash of red sparks. Harry instinctively ducked and found himself crouching behind the trunk. Sticking his head out, he shouted, “ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

It had worked the last time he’d met Voldemort in a graveyard. Maybe it would buy him some time, at least. But Voldemort flicked it away like an annoying insect. Harry started to his feet, ready to lunge around the tree, when he sensed another attack coming.

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

Voldemort had lost patience.

The spell hit the tree with explosive force sending jets of light and sparks flying. They landed on the grass, struck the bone-dry pinecones, and abruptly flared up. Huddled behind his protective tree, Harry found himself surrounded by half a dozen sputtering, burning pinecones.

A sudden vision flashed in his head—Draco on a broomstick, holding a flaming pinecone in his adamant fingers, crushing it and laughing… laughing… Pain flared in Harry as hot and fierce as any flame. In a futile gesture, born of agony and frustration, he waved his wand at the pinecones and sent them flying at Voldemort.

The Dark Lord did not bother to evade these harmless missiles. He just stared at them, bemused, as they struck his body and flew past his head. Then he laughed again. The pinecones bounced off him and tumbled to the grass, where they lay, burning still more merrily and catching the grass on fire as well. Voldemort surveyed them with a derisive smile on his inhuman face.

“Is that the best you can manage, Harry? You put up a better fight last time, and you were only a child, then. Come,” he stepped forward, wand and hand held out, and his trailing robe dragged over the flames in the grass, “join your lover while there’s still time.”

Harry tried not to stare at the spot where Voldemort’s robe lay over the burning pinecones. It was smoking. A tiny flame appeared. Then, abruptly, a long, orange tongue shot up from the black folds.

“You cannot defeat me, Harry Potter. The stars forbid it. _I_ forbid it. Surrender to me and take what comfort you can from dying with the one you love.”

It came to Harry in a blinding flash. The only way to kill this wizard was _without magic!_ He didn’t stop to think, to give himself time to wonder or worry. He acted on instinct, with the absolute certainty that he was right, and threw himself out from behind the tree with his wand raised and the spell forming in his mind.

“ _Aegio!_ ”

Pearly light flew from his wand. Voldemort heard the spell, saw the bubble of power forming around him, and gave a sneering laugh. He did not look down at the flame now eating up the length of his robe, reaching hungrily for his flesh, just watched the containment charm thicken around him and jeered, “A child to the last! I will crush you, Potter! Show you no mercy! And when I kill your lover, I will do it so slowly and so horribly that there will be nothing left for his friends to bury.”

Harry paced slowly into the open ground, his wand held out straight, his eyes and all his strength focused on the bubble of power that held Voldemort. The bubble was opaque, but he could hear the Dark Lord’s voice clearly through it and, strangely, he could sense what he was thinking. He knew when Voldemort’s attention shifted from taunting Harry to the flames now consuming his clothing. He felt the irritation in him and sensed when he gathered his power to perform an Aguamenti charm.

It failed. His power did not respond. Irritation turned to outright anger, and his mind turned to Harry again. Once more he tried to summon his power, to break the Containment charm, and once more he failed. A howl of fury came from the harmless-looking bubble, and Harry braced himself. Now Voldemort understood. Now he would truly fight.

* * *

“Malfoy.”

The voice came from a long way off, calling to him, dragging him up from peaceful unconsciousness and into the hideous, pain-wracked darkness that was his waking life.

“Malfoy, can you hear me?”

He didn’t want to answer, but he couldn’t ignore that voice. He had spent too many years obeying it to stop now.

“Mm.” He stirred slightly, trying to lift his head, but it seemed to weigh a few tons, and the best he could manage was to turn it slightly toward the voice. “Pr…fess..s…”

“That’s right.” A hand slid behind his head and raised it, then a metal cup touched his lips. “Drink this.”

He opened his mouth and felt cold liquid trickle into it. Water. He drank it gratefully, draining the cup.

“Good.”

Professor Snape settled his head back on the stone and pulled cloth up around his throat. It was warm—delightfully, unbelievably warm—and Draco realized that the same warmth was wrapped close around his entire body. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be warm.

“Now just rest for a minute. Get your strength back.”

Draco lay shivering on the harsh stone ledge, the pain in his body blossoming into full-blown agony, as life returned to his limbs and his blood began to flow properly again. In these last hours, he had learned to be grateful for the numbness of extreme cold and impending death. They had eased his going. Now, it seemed, he was not to go just yet. He groaned softly, then coughed and tasted blood in his mouth.

“Where does it hurt?” Snape asked.

“Everywhere,” he whispered.

“Can you stand? Walk?”

“Nn— no.” He drew a ragged breath, struggling for control and focus. He could hear strange noises filtering into his prison, the sounds of battle, and he knew that this was important but couldn’t remember why. “Where…?”

“Where are we? Still in your cell in Azkaban.”

He lifted a hand to wave that away. “No. I know. Where… Mmm!” Agony twisted in his innards, forcing a panting cry from him. He curled up in a defensive ball, turning his head to hide his face from the watching man, and choked, sending blood running down his chin.

“Malfoy!” Hands caught his shoulders, lifting and turning him, until he felt his weight fall against another body and strong arms go around him. He gagged on another mouthful of blood, coughed, and felt it soak the fabric against his cheek.

“Just breathe. I’ll get you back to Hogwarts and the healers as quickly as I can.”

“ _No._ ” Summoning strength he didn’t have, Draco reached out to push himself away from Snape’s chest. “Fighting… I can _hear it_.”

“Yes, but…”

“Harry’s here.”

The Potions Master sighed wearily. “Of course he is. But he’s busy with the Dark Lord and doesn’t need to worry about you, as well.”

“Help him.” Urgency filled him, a certainty that left no room for pain and weakness. He knew that his body was rapidly failing, that Professor Snape’s warming spell and a drink of water were not going to save him, but he had one task left before he abandoned Harry. That knowledge put steel in his spine and strength in his arm.

He sat up, his right hand braced against Snape’s chest for balance, and lifted his ruined eyes to the other man’s face. “I have to help him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You won’t last an hour, if I don’t get you to the healers.”

“I don’t need an hour.” His voice came more strongly, his words more clearly, with every passing moment. “I made a promise to stand with him.”

“Potter will understand why you couldn’t keep it. Believe me, Malfoy, he’d rather face Voldemort alone than risk your life in a fruitless gesture.”

“It’s not a gesture. It’s a promise.” His fingers curled, gripping a fold of Snape’s robe with desperate strength. “I have to keep it. _I have to_.”

“At the cost of your life?” He could hear the disgust and reluctant understanding in the older man’s voice. “Don’t let love make you stupid, Malfoy. You’ve already sacrificed your family, your standing in the wizarding world, your _hand_ for love of Potter! How much more are you willing to give?!”

“Whatever it takes.” His grip tightened as he willed Snape to hear him, to believe him. “Not just for Harry. For me. I made the promise for _me._ If I don’t keep it, then all of this… everything I’ve done… it was all for nothing!”

“What about your daughter?” Snape asked, harshly.

Draco stiffened. “What?”

“She’s at Hogwarts. Your mother brought her to us and told us how to find you. Now they’re both waiting for you.”

Pain and elation flooded him, making the breath sob in his throat. He sagged forward, his head pressing into the hollow of Snape’s shoulder and his shoulders shaking with dry sobs, while bloody tears coursed down his cheeks. Lily was safe! Lily was _home!_ And his mother… he couldn’t let himself think about her yet, but maybe, if they all survived and he made it home to Lily… just _maybe_ …

Snape’s voice lashed him from the darkness, forcing him back to the ugly present. “Will you orphan your daughter to keep a foolish promise made in the heat of passion?”

“That’s not what it is. You know… you told me I have to choose for myself and be ready to pay for my choices.” Draco straightened up again, but his strength was fading, and only his grip on Snape’s clothing kept him upright. “That’s what I’m doing. Paying for the choice I made.”

He heard a tremor in his voice and hated himself for it but couldn’t control it, as he went on, almost pleading, “I can’t go back to Lily and tell her that I let her father fight and die alone, because I was afraid. I can’t do that. And if Harry loses now, we all lose. We all die. The only way to keep her safe is to help him. Whatever the cost.”

Snape hesitated, and in the silence, he slipped an arm around Draco’s shoulders to hold him up. Finally, he asked, his voice heavy, “Do you honestly think he needs you that much?”

“Yes.”

“You think you can change the outcome of this battle?”

“Yes.”

With a sigh that came from the bottom of his soul, Snape rose to his feet. He shifted his hold on Draco, freeing his wand hand, and muttered a spell. Draco felt his body go suddenly weightless and drift up off the stone. Snape carefully bundled the robe around his chill, naked limbs, then sent him drifting into the impenetrable darkness.

It was disorienting to float in a black void, his body still very much with him—still afire with pain and shaking with cold—but disconnected from the solid world. He could feel himself moving forward and, after a moment, Snape’s hand on his arm, guiding him, but he had no idea where they were going. They must have passed windows, because the noises from outside grew louder, then softer, and more than once he felt the dementors’ cold flow over him in a sickening wave.

They traveled in this way for a few minutes—Draco floating, Snape holding his arm and directing him with his wand—along corridors and down a long spiral staircase, until they moved out of the prison and into the thin, winter sunshine. Draco couldn’t see it, but he felt the air grow slightly warmer, and he heard the noises that filled the tiny island beat at him without the stone walls to protect him. Shouts, screams, spells, the groans of the injured, the taunts and laughter of the victorious, all mingled with the explosive power of hexes and curses flying all around him. A spell hit the wall behind him, burst, and flooded him with heat. Snape muttered another spell, and another jet of power bounced off his shield charm to scatter harmlessly in the air.

Draco could picture it all with frightening clarity, but he couldn’t see Harry’s part in it. He knew Harry was here—he could feel it deep down, below the level of rational thought, in that place inside him formed by the Blood Link, where Harry had lived for those precious days—but he couldn’t hear his voice or feel his familiar magic in the air.

“Where is he?!” Draco called to Snape, over the din.

“This way.”

“What’s going on? What’s he doing?”

They were moving again, more quickly and erratically, as Snape dodged skirmishes and jogged over uneven ground.

“It looks like he’s got Voldemort in a Containment Charm.”

The disgust in Snape’s voice was plain to Draco, but he felt a spurt of excitement. Harry must be holding the Dark Lord prisoner for a reason. He must have a plan, or he wouldn’t pit his power against Voldemort’s so directly. Draco couldn’t guess what that plan might be but it didn’t matter. All that did matter was his certainty that he could help.

“Hurry!” he cried. “Get me to him!”

“This is madness!” Snape shouted back, even as he ducked and rolled to avoid a deadly curse. “You don’t even have a wand!”

“I don’t need one! I…” Then he remembered that his hand was gone. “ _Bloody Hell!_ ”

“What do you think you can do?!”

Draco thought frantically. He knew he could share his power with Harry. He’d done it before. But he’d used his hand as a conduit for that power, feeding it into Harry’s wand to reinforce the charm. Without his hand, he had no way…

“A Blood Link!”

“What?” Snape stopped abruptly, his hand tightening on Draco’s arm.

“Form a Blood Link, from me to Harry!”

“There’s no time,” he protested, his voice scaling up in something close to panic. “You’ve never tried to control one! You don’t know…”

“I don’t need control!” Draco cut in, furiously. “I need a _way in!”_

Snape fell silent for an endless, agonizing minute, while the sounds of battle raged all around them, and Draco reached out desperately for Harry, trying to touch him, to tell him that he was there and coming to his aid. Again, he didn’t need to see what was happening to know that Harry was on the verge of breaking. He could sense it, and he could feel the tremendous power building in the air, as the two greatest wizards of the age pitted themselves against each other. Any moment the charm would break. Any moment Voldemort would be free.

“ _Please!_ ” he cried, the word tearing at his throat in his desperation.

Snape swore viciously under his breath and let go of Draco’s arm. “Get ready.”

“I am. Go! _Do it!_ ”

There was another terrible moment of silence, then Draco felt the spell plunge into his chest, through his ribcage, to wrap around his heart. There was a moment of tremendous pressure and pain, while his heart struggled to beat and his lungs refused to breathe, then a surge of relief and freedom as the link snapped open.

Draco could see it—the link shining crimson in the darkness—and sense the presence at the end of it. His power was flowing through it, into the other boy, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause for thought, just gathered every shred of power, thought, emotion and awareness, and flung himself headlong into the link.

* * *

Harry and Voldemort were locked in a battle of wills that could only end in death. All Harry had to do was keep his charm intact, contain the power and fury of the creature imprisoned with in it, but he knew he was losing ground. His palms were sweating and his head aching. His wand began to vibrate, and random sparks flew from the tip. Voldemort began to scream, a terrible, nerve-shattering sound that filled the air as if he’d magically amplified it and brought answering screams from his embattled servants.

Harry saw, from the corners of his eyes, that the battle had drawn into a ring around him, as the Death Eaters struggled to reach their master and Dumbledore’s forces fought to keep them back. It surged and stretched, moving in here and out there, but it didn’t break. Harry stood alone at the center of the storm—alone with his tenuous charm and his raging enemy.

The pressure within the charm was growing greater by the second. Harry could feel Voldemort gathering himself for a final, tremendous effort, and he knew down in his guts that he couldn’t withstand it. Not alone. He closed his eyes and willed himself to stand, to hold, to use every last whisper of power he possessed, to empty himself into the charm if that’s what it took. Everything depended on it. Everything.

Voices reached him—Dumbledore’s, Hermione’s, Snape’s—but he shut them out. Then he heard another voice, the very last voice he had dreamed he would hear in this life, and his heart lurched in his chest. Draco! Draco was here! _Alive!_ Harry started to turn, to find him, but a shout from Dumbledore halted him.

“ _Hold him, Harry! Don’t stop now!_ ”

Harry obediently, ruthlessly, tore his thoughts from his dragon and fixed them on Voldemort once more. The Dark Lord was in pain, his body burning, his rage and his power rising like magma within him, ready to erupt in flame and destruction. Harry felt it coming and closed his eyes again, bracing himself for the end.

Suddenly, he felt as if a window had opened in his chest. Light and strength poured into him, power, warmth, a silver fire that he greeted with a silent cry of welcome and delight. The glorious power flowed through his body, into his wand, into his spell, and in that instant, Harry’s fear fell away.

Draco was here with him. Inside him. Sharing his power. Together, they could do anything—even defeat Voldemort.

Harry’s back straightened and his eyes opened to stare in wonder at the beautiful, shifting, shining thing their combined power made. It was a bubble no longer, but a solid sphere of power, like an enormous pearl sitting on the grass. Harry could still feel the flames inside it and hear the creature being consumed by them, but he knew that nothing could penetrate it.

The rest was just waiting. The battle still raged around him, as the Death Eaters made a last, desperate push to reach and save their leader. Spells flew and bodies fell. But Harry stood still and calm, listening to Voldemort burn to death inside his spell with satisfaction and a measure of pity. It was an ugly way to die, even for a monster like Tom Riddle. He would have preferred something quick and clean, but Voldemort himself had taken away that option and left him only with this.

He knew it was over when he saw the cage that held Dumbledore flicker and fade. In the same moment, Hermione’s magical bonds dissolved, and she slumped to the grass. A ragged figure in filthy Hogwarts robes darted up to her and gathered her up in his arms, his ginger head bent close to hers. Harry held the charm for another minute, just to be sure, then he finally backed off the flow of power and lowered his arm. The stream of light from his wand died. The tremendous pearl thinned, shimmered, then popped with a brief discharge of power.

In the instant that the spell died, it was as if a protective shell enclosing Harry broke, as well. Noise flooded over him—shrieks of rage and despair from Voldemort’s forces, cheers and weeping from his own, Dumbledore’s voice speaking to the students lying around his feet, Snape calling something he couldn’t understand—and the world around him came into bright, clear focus. From the corners of his eyes, he saw Dumbledore bending over Neville Longbottom as he stirred and lifted a hand. He saw a figure in black robes break from the ring of watchers, howling in agony, flinging herself toward Harry with her wand, only to be struck by a jet of green light and go sprawling on the grass. He saw familiar figures running toward him, Dumbledore, the children now waking from their deadly dreams. But for Harry, the only thing that truly mattered was the shapeless heap lying in a circle of burnt grass a dozen yards away.

He walked toward it, his wand still in his hand but held loosely at his side, and stopped just beside it. Smoke rose from it in a lazy spiral, while desultory flames licked at a last, few shreds of fabric. The smell was nauseating, the sight repellent, but Harry made himself stand there and look at the burned body of his lifelong foe.

This misshapen bundle of ash and bone on the blackened grass was all that remained of Lord Voldemort. Tom Riddle. A man who had sought immortality through magic, but had died as a Muggle. Harry stared at the pathetic object for a moment, feeling a sickening mixture of relief and disgust, while an odd pressure built in his head.

He looked up and around at the scene of his triumph, shaking his head slightly to clear it, while the power and wonder and joy built inside him until they threatened to burst his skull. His vision blurred with tears. For a vertiginous moment, he felt as if something were wrapped around his brainstem, holding it in a loving embrace, bathing it in silver fire, and then he understood. He wasn’t alone.

A laugh broke from him, and he turned, eagerly, to find the source of all that magnificent power. He saw them at the edge of the graveyard, two bodies on the grass, the larger man lying against a crooked headstone and holding the smaller boy in his arms. He started forward, then the man looked up at him, met his eyes, and it seemed to Harry as if the sun had just gone out.

He threw himself across the open ground to reach them, howling, “ _Noooooo!_ ”

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	10. His is the Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has won the battle, but he may still lose the only thing that really matters to him.

****Harry knelt on the brittle grass at Snape’s side. He held Draco’s right hand tightly in both of his own, clutching it to his chest, and stared down at his lover’s ghastly, bloodied face. People moved all around him, their voices battering at him, with Dumbledore in the middle of it all issuing instructions.

“Kingsley and Arthur are in command, here. Direct your questions to them. Minerva, if you would get the students back to Hogwarts? No, Molly, you may _not_ speak to Harry, not now. Go with your children and see to their comfort. I will speak to you all when I have a free moment.”

Harry heard it all but paid little attention. Dumbledore would keep them away from him, and it wasn’t as if they needed him anymore. Not now that Voldemort was dead. All that mattered to Harry now was Draco—now when it was too late.

The Slytherin lay brokenly in Snape’s arms, his head falling back over one supporting arm, his lashes so clogged with blood and gore that Harry couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. Beneath the bloodstains and black fabric that wrapped him, his skin was marble white and deathly cold. The fingers Harry clasped did not so much as twitch, even when Harry let his wizarding power flow through their linked hands and into the other boy’s body. Glittering fire danced over Draco’s face, blurring its lines and giving the illusion of warmth, but it was only an illusion. There was no life behind the shimmer of power and the chill, porcelain skin.

“What happened?” he asked, thickly, his gaze lifting to meet Snape’s dark, frowning eyes.

“He burst the link.” Snape pushed himself upright, shifting his hold on Draco as he did so. He moved stiffly, as if badly bruised.

“Overloaded it?” Dumbledore asked, now stooping over Draco from the other side.

Snape nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He threw himself into the link, didn’t even try to control it, and it just… exploded. The blast must have tossed us twenty feet.”

“He’s still breathing.”

“Just barely. It’s slowing and his heartbeat is growing weaker.”

“But he’s here with me!” Harry protested. “I can _feel him!_ ”

The pressure in his head intensified, and the warmth of a familiar presence increased, telling Harry that Draco was, indeed, there with him and trying to reassure him. But the body in Snape’s arms did not stir. Harry stroked his hair and leaned down to kiss him. The cold, blue lips beneath his did not move.

Harry sobbed in pain and backed off, pressing one shaking hand to his mouth. He had a sudden, gut-wrenching vision of his recurring dream—of Draco smiling up at him in the moonlight, as Harry the Dementor bent to claim his lips and his soul at once.

Turning agonized, appalled eyes on Dumbledore, he said, “He’s in my head, isn’t he? He went through the link and can’t get back.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“ _What_ went through?” Snape growled. “His wizarding power, obviously, but he could live without that. His mind? Is he talking to you, Potter?”

“Not exactly, but he’s here.”

“We can examine that question at more leisure, when we’ve got Mr. Malfoy back where he belongs,” Dumbledore interjected.

“Make another link,” Harry said urgently. “One from me to Draco. Then he can go back through it, into his own body!”

The old wizard frowned down at the tangle of black fabric and cold, white limbs lying in Snape’s arms. “Eventually, perhaps, but his body is failing. If we put his—his spirit, I think we’ll call it—back into it now, he’ll die.”

Harry sobbed again and felt hot tears burn his eyes. “He can’t. Not now.”

Dumbledore nodded toward the boys’ linked hands and the shimmer of power obscuring Draco’s face. “You can stop it, for a while, at least. Use your power, Harry. Keep him warm and breathing. Keep his body alive, while we work out how to help him.”

Harry instinctively pulled Draco’s hand closer and bent to press a kiss to his knuckles. The power flowing out of him into the other boy was much stronger than usual, and the strands that twisted about their bodies were not gold or silver, not even the two colors woven together as he had seen so often before, but a unique and beautiful color all their own.

“Draco is helping,” he murmured, feeling a rush of gratitude and love, in spite of the cold horror congealing in his stomach.

“Excellent. Severus, I need you to do something for me. If you would let Harry take charge of Mr. Malfoy…”

Maintaining the flow of power at full strength, Harry let go of Draco’s hand to lift his body from Snape’s arms. He felt strangely light and fragile, and Harry winced as he gathered him up close, afraid that he would accidentally crush him if he held him too tightly. Snape scrambled to his feet and drew away with Dumbledore, leaving Harry alone with his love for the first time.

Gently, carefully, Harry cradled Draco’s tousled, filthy, silver-blond head against his shoulder and bent to kiss him. As before, the unconscious boy gave no sign that he was aware of Harry’s presence, but the power flickering around him had warmed his lips until they felt almost human.

Harry stroked his hair, dropped another kiss on his lips, and murmured, “We’re almost home, Dragon. Just hold on a little longer.

_I will._

Harry’s head snapped up, and he instinctively looked around for the source of that beloved voice, even though he already knew where it had come from. It wasn’t really even a voice, just words formed in his head with no breath or sound behind them, but he recognized it instantly.

“Draco!” he gasped, half-laughing,half-sobbing in relief. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll find a way to save you.”

_I’m not afraid. You’re here._

*** *** ***

Ron sat hunched in a chair beside Hermione’s bed, holding her hand and watching her sleep. He was supposed to be in bed, himself, but he wasn’t really hurt, just cold and sore, and he couldn’t bear to be alone. So the minute Madam Pomfrey had disappeared behind the screen at the back of the ward, he’d kicked off his covers, climbed out of bed, and padded past a row of humped bodies in white-framed beds until he found Hermione.

She was still unconscious, but Ron felt less lonely when he was within reach of her and less anxious when he could watch her steady breathing. It reminded him that someone he cared about had survived this disaster and would heal from her injuries. Hermione, at least, would come back to him.

In the sleeping quiet of the hospital wing, he could hear muted voices from the other side of the screen: Harry, Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey, that healer from St. Mungo’s with a face like an angry turtle, but no Malfoy. No caustic remarks or back-handed compliments. No snide reflections on the stupidity of Gryffindors as a breed. No laughing digs at Perfect Bloody Potter. Ron could understand few of the words spoken, but he could guess what they were talking about, and the lump of grief in his guts hardened until his entire body ached with it. He wanted to cry from the pain, but what right did he have to cry? Malfoy wasn’t his lover. He wasn’t even his friend—or hadn’t been, until recently. He wasn’t really losing anything but a sparring partner. It would be hypocritical to cry now, after all the months he’d spent tormenting Harry and Draco, trying to drive the Slytherin away or, at best, ignore his very existence. Malfoy would laugh if he could see him now. Laugh and call him Weasel in that wicked, drawling way he had, then taunt him for his poverty and his sloppiness and his freckles and…

Tears began to drip down his face, falling onto his hand, where it clasped Hermione’s. He gulped and wiped his nose on one sleeve, but the tears kept coming. He needed a handkerchief, but he was dressed in hospital wing pajamas with no pockets, and he never remembered to bring a handkerchief with him when he left the dormitory, anyway. His sleeve would have to do.

He lifted his arm, pulling Hermione’s up with it, then froze when he saw her eyes open and fixed on him. Slowly, he lowered his arm again and offered her a wan smile. She just blinked.

“Hey,” he said, softly.

Her gaze shifted toward the screens at the far end of the ward. Her face was stark white and taut with pain. “Are they back there?” she whispered.

“Yeah. You, umm… you remember what happened?”

“Some. I saw what Harry did. And I saw Malfoy…” She swallowed painfully. “He looked dead. Is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should be with Harry. He can’t do this alone.”

“I can’t.” The tears began to flow again, and Ron made no attempt to hide them from her. “I can’t watch it.”

“Oh, Ron.”

“You know what I did, Hermione. You know it’s all my fault.”

“No. You were Imperiused.”

“That’s what Ferret said, but…” He broke off and wiped furiously at his face, his features twisted with pain. “Harry won. Voldemort’s dead. We got out of Azkaban alive. I should be _happy_. Why do I feel like I’ll never be happy again?”

“Please, Ron,” she whispered, her own eyes now bright with tears, “please go help Harry.”

“Soon. I promise. I just have to… have to look after you, first. Can I get you anything? A drink of water?” he asked, hopefully.

Hermione blinked at him for a moment, nonplussed, then gave him a soggy smile and squeezed his hand. “That would be good.”

* * *

The usual crowd of worried teachers were collected around the bed, with the vital addition of Madam Fox. Harry knelt on the cold marble beside it, one hand resting on Draco’s head and the other clasping his still fingers, wizarding power dancing before his eyes, obscuring his view of the pale face lying so close to his. But he didn’t need to see Draco’s face to know how close he was to death. The moment they reached the hospital wing, Professor Dumbledore had formed another Blood Link, allowing Harry to pour into Draco some part of their shared power. Now Harry was watching everything the healers did through the link, watching the empty body in the bed fade inexorably away.

“Just a little more power, if you please, Mr. Potter,” Madam Fox murmured.

Harry obediently loosened his mental grip on the link, letting more power stream through it.

“Is Mr. Malfoy behaving himself?”

Harry nodded. They were all so worried that Draco would try to get back through the link before they had healed his wounds, but Draco himself was in no hurry to leave the comfortable safety of Harry’s mind. Harry gathered, from the unfamiliar emotions invading his own, that he could see through Harry’s eyes, which meant that he could see as clearly as Harry did how terrible his injuries were.

Viewing those injuries from inside the link, Harry was all too aware of what had happened to his body. The baby had taken everything—strength, nourishment, magical power, everything—and in return had torn him apart like an old sack. Bellatrix had made a token effort to heal his most critical injuries, but she done no more than close the ragged edges of the wounds to stop him from bleeding to death. Only pure stubbornness on Draco’s part had kept him alive until he found Harry again. But instead of helping him, Harry had taken the rest of his power, his strength, his _spirit_ and used them for his own ends.

The vision of a dementor flashed into Harry’s mind again, but he pushed it ruthlessly away before Draco saw it. The warmth he identified as Draco’s presence wrapped around him brainstem, holding him, and he smiled in spite of his fear.

_You’re not a dementor, Harry._

Harry lifted the still hand he clasped and dropped a kiss on its knuckles.

_Neither is Lily. She didn’t mean to hurt me._

Harry felt a surge of terrible longing fill him at the thought of Lily that was definitely not his own. He still barely grasped that the baby was real and had not even begun to process the fact that she was his _._ That agonizing need to find and touch and hold her had to come from Draco.

 _She’s here_ , Harry reminded him.

_Can I see her?_

_Let them save your life, first._

_Don’t let me die without seeing her, Harry._ The words were simple, but the pain behind them made Harry gasp out loud.

 _I won’t let you die at all_.

Madam Pomfrey looked up from her work and said, “Are you all right, Potter?”

Harry nodded but didn’t trust himself to speak.

“We’re nearly done. Hold on for a few more minutes.”

“I’m fine,” Harry murmured.

He could see Madam Pomfrey conjuring a pair of flannel pajamas to cover Draco’s scarred body and cold limbs. As Harry watched, she lifted his left arm—the hacked end healed smoothly and the adamant had reattached—and pulled the blankets up around his chest. Then she laid the hand on the blanket. With the blood cleaned from his face and lashes, he looked as though he were sleeping peacefully.

Madam Fox gave a final wave of her wand, sending a puff of heat up from the covers, and turned her beady gaze on Dumbledore. “That’s all we can do, for now, Albus. I’d say it’s time to get Draco back in his own head.”

“I agree.”

“No!” Harry protested, turning reproachful eyes on the healer. “ It’s too soon! He’s too weak…”

“And weakening still more as we stand here. There’s only so much magic can do, Potter,” Madam Fox said, her face stern but kind. “He has to heal on his own, as a whole person, not an empty shell.”

“But…”

“The longer his body stays empty, the less likelihood there is that we can get him back into it,” Dumbledore added, firmly.

Harry knew that they were right. He could feel the emptiness and stillness of Draco’s body and knew that it couldn’t survive like this for much longer. Only his power, fed through the link, was keeping it alive now. But he could also feel the pain coursing through that empty body and shuddered to think what Draco would suffer when he was forced back into it.

_I want to go._

_No, you don’t. Trust me._

_I have to go, Harry. I can’t stay here forever._

_Just a little longer. Please. I can’t watch you hurt like that._

_You’ll help me._

The warm arms were wrapped around him again, and Harry wanted to burst into tears but couldn’t do it in front of all those teachers. Instead, he rose to his feet and bent over to brush a kiss to Draco’s still lips. They were no longer cold, but they did not move to welcome his. He had to do it, if he ever wanted to hold and kiss his lover again. He had to let Draco go.

Then another thought occurred to him, and he straightened up. “He wants to see Lily.”

Madam Pomfrey looked startled and faintly disapproving. “The baby?”

“ _His_ baby,” Harry corrected her.

“I’ve repaired his eyes, but I can’t restore his sight,” Madam Fox said, frowning. “Even with the link, you won’t be able to make them work.”

“I know. I mean before he goes back through the link.” She just stared at him, but Dumbledore was smiling as he realized what Harry was saying. “He can see her through my eyes.”

The Healer’s brows flew up to her hairline and she looked appalled. “He’s been watching all of this? Merlin’s Balls!”

Harry paused for a moment, listening to Draco’s words in his head, then brought his gaze back into focus and smiled slightly. “He says, ‘Don’t worry, Auntie Genie, I’ve been sitting in the corner, reciting rude limericks. I didn’t see a thing.’”

Madam Fox gave a short, sharp laugh and shook her head.

Dumbledore nodded to Madam Pomfrey. “Fetch Lily. She should be here with her parents.”

With a tight, worried nod of her head, Madam Pomfrey moved around the screen, disappearing down the ward. Harry perched on the edge of the mattress and looked down at the pale, peaceful face of his love. He wanted Draco back so desperately that he thought the pain of it would kill him, but at the same time, he wanted to keep that warm presence and soundless voice in his head, sharing his every thought and feeling. All the times he’d made love to Draco and felt their power flow through their joined bodies, he’d thought that was as close as two people could get—as close to being one heart, one soul as the laws of nature allowed—but this was a whole new level of closeness, of intimacy, and his entire being thrilled to it. He couldn’t have both. He knew that. He had to choose—or, more to the point, Draco had to choose and Harry had to live with it. But either choice promised some kind of pain and separation.

Madam Pomfrey came back around the screen, interrupting his musings, with a bundle of soft fabric in her arms. It squirmed, and an imperious cry came from it.

“She’s due for a feeding,” Pomfrey said, as she held the bundle out to Dumbledore. “A few more minutes, and she’ll be screaming the roof down.”

“Give her to Mr. Potter.”

Madam Pomfrey turned and held out her hands to Harry. He blinked down at the tiny creature lying in a nest of hospital-wing flannel across her palms, arms flailing, slate-blue eyes staring accusingly up at him, and he automatically reached to take it. His one lesson in holding an infant served him well. He settled the baby in his arms, the fragile head tucked into the crook of his elbow, while the little body lay along his forearm, snuggled to the warmth of his body. He had half a second to gaze at her and think how beautiful she was, how much like Draco, then a rush of emotion hit him so hard that he momentarily forgot how to breathe.

Disbelief. Wonder. Fascination. Terror. But over all of it, a joy such as he had never felt or even imagined before. He gasped, and his eyes blurred with tears. He reached to touch the baby’s smooth, white cheek, his hand moving of its own volition, and she turned at the touch, her mouth opening. Before he quite knew what was happening, his knuckle was in her mouth, and she was munching on it happily with her toothless gums. Harry laughed, a great fountain of love rising up in him, and lifted sparkling, tear-bright eyes to Madam Pomfrey’s lined face.

“She likes my finger.”

“She’s hungry. She thinks it’s dinner.”

He looked down at the baby again, fully aware that most of the emotion filling him was not his own but enjoying it anyway. If Draco could love the creature that had almost destroyed him so completely, then how could Harry resist her?

_She’s perfect, Dragon._

_I wanted her to look like you_.

Even his voiceless, soundless words were overcome with emotion, and they brought fresh tears of happiness to Harry’s eyes.

_She deserves better than that._

_If she looked like you, no one could doubt that she’s yours._ He hesitated for a moment, then added, _She is yours, Harry. I swear it._

_I know._

And he did know. Whatever questions and doubts had plagued him when Narcissa Malfoy first turned up at Hogwarts with Draco’s baby, they had vanished the moment he held that baby in his arms and looked at her through Draco’s eyes. Or Draco looked through his. Or whatever was happening right now. Maybe the eyes belonged to them both, equally, as did Harry’s heart and mind and wizarding power. They were one person, after all, for this blissful moment.

Draco’s words came to him again, shattering the peace that filled him.

_Voldemort blinded me so I’d never see her face._

Harry felt a jolt of horror and pity that evaporated as quickly as it came. Draco wasn’t asking for pity. He was stating a fact—a fact that was irrelevant now, because he was seeing his baby’s face in spite of all the Dark Lord had done.

 _Just one more thing he got wrong,_ Harry said.

_I’ve seen her. Now it’s time for me to go._

_Not yet. Let’s just sit together and hold her. See how happy she is? She knows you’re here._

_I’ll still be here. And I’ll still hold her. Hold both of you._

_What if it doesn’t work? What if you leave me and just disappear?_

_It’ll work._

_Draco…_

_I have to go, Harry. I can’t live as an afterthought._

Harry heaved a sigh, knowing that Draco was right and he was defeated. _I love you, Dragon._

_I’ll be all right._

With another sigh, Harry lifted his gaze from the baby to Dumbledore and said, “He’s ready to go.”

“Very good. Give Lily to Madam Pomfrey…”

“Can’t she stay?”

“Of course. But not, I think, in your arms. Just take her for a minute, Poppy, if you would.”

Lily did not like being taken from Harry’s arms. She began to fuss the moment he shifted his hold on her, and her cries grew louder when Madam Pomfrey took her. Harry felt a stirring of distress—his own, he thought—and a new urgency. Draco wanted to get back in his own body, where he could hold his daughter and soothe her cries himself.

Harry watched as Madam Pomfrey conjured a bottle and began to feed the baby. Then he turned back to Professor Dumbledore and asked, “What do I do?”

“Just open the link. The rest is up to Mr. Malfoy.” Looking Harry square in the eyes, he said, “I can’t guide you, Draco. This is new magic, something none of us has ever experienced. All I can say is, you know where you belong. If you’re willing to let go of Harry, you’ll find the way.”

“He understands,” Harry said. Then, to Draco, he added, _How can I help?_

_Don’t. And don’t follow me, or we’ll end up with you on the wrong side of the link._

_I have to use the link to heal you._

_I’ll be all right. I promise._

Harry felt the pressure in his head build, as it had on the island before Draco learned to speak to him, and the warmth of a farewell embrace wrapped around him. He waited, numb with sorrow, as Draco poured his power and his presence into the link. He felt them drain away, felt the silver fire within him flicker and die. And then, in the last instant, something brushed him like a hand against his cheek, and words formed clearly in his mind.

_I love you, Harry._

_Wait!_ His eyes snapped open and fixed on the body in the bed. “Wait! Draco!”

Draco’s chest rose and fell on a long, ragged breath, and his eyes flicked open. Perfect, sightless, winter-grey eyes stared up at him. Draco took another pain-edged breath and said, “It’s dark. It must’ve worked.”

Harry gave a sob and bent to kiss him, dropping his hand so he could clasp his head in both hands. And this time, Draco answered his kiss. His mouth warmed and opened, his adamant hand lifted to slip behind Harry’s neck, and wizarding power sparked between them. Harry deepened the kiss, oblivious to all the teachers standing about, watching them, intent only on feeling and tasting and enjoying the reality of his beloved archangel alive and awake in his arms again.

When he finally broke the kiss, he backed off only far enough to smile down into Draco’s empty eyes, then he pressed his lips to his silvered lashes and the little scar on his cheekbone.

“Say it again. Please.”

A smile lifted one corner of Draco’s mouth in a shadowy imitation of his old wickedness. “That you’re a sentimental prat?”

“You…!”

Before Harry could finish this thought, they both heard a chair scraping on the marble floor and a voice calling from the far end of the ward, “ _Ferret?!_ ”

In answer, Harry felt Draco suddenly pull on the Blood Link, drawing a surge of strength from it. He lurched upright, clutching Harry’s robe for balance and using his wizarding power to keep his abused body under control.

“Weasel?”

“ _Ferret!_ ” Bare feet slapped on the floor, running fill tilt for the screen. “Ferret, you incredible _git!_ ”

The screen went flying and Ron Weasley, his face wild and white beneath a shock of red hair, charged up to the bed. He paid no attention to Madam Fox and Dumbledore, who both blocked his path, but simply shoved them aside and flung himself at the small figure in the bed.

“Weasel!” Draco cried in welcome. Ron scooped him up in his arms and hugged him till he gasped in protest, “Careful! That hurts!”

“I thought you were dead!”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Draco retorted, laughing.

“I’m so glad to see your ugly, pointy, ferrety face again, I could… I could _kiss you!_ ”

To prove his words, he promptly grabbed Draco’s head in both hands and planted a kiss full on his lips.

Harry felt a spurt of surprise through the link, but no protest, and Draco made no move to push Ron away. It was Harry who broke the unexpected embrace. He cleared his throat and remarked, dryly, “Excuse me. I distinctly remember you telling me you were never going to do that.”

Ron dropped his hands and grinned unabashedly at his friend. “Exceptional circumstances, mate.” Then he turned back to Draco and eyed him in open amazement. “Bloody hell, Ferret, how’re you even alive? Much less sitting up and snogging your friends?”

“I’m not. It’s all Harry.”

“Huh?” His eyes went to Harry again, saw the slightly unfocused look he wore and brightened in understanding. “You’re linked!”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“Then you’re going to be okay!” he cried in relief, turning back to Draco yet again and catching his arms. “Harry’ll keep you safe.”

“For now. Weasel, listen…”

“What do you mean, ‘for now’? They’re not going to cut the link, are they?”

“Yes but…”

“They can’t do that! Don’t they know what bloody Voldemort _did_ to you?!”

“Of course they do. Ron, shut it and _Iisten_.”

Ron shut his mouth with a snap but did not let go of Draco. The Slytherin, even with Harry’s power flooding into him through the link, was looking decidedly peaky and starting to sag. Harry promptly shifted his position to sit at the head of the bed and support Draco’s weight against his chest. The smaller boy collapsed back into his arms with a grunt of pain that made Ron frown.

“Did you tell them about the baby? Is Harry going to find her?” Ron demanded.

“He doesn’t have to. She’s here.”

“She’s _what?!_ ”

“She’s here. My mother brought her to Dumbledore. Harry?” He reached to find Harry’s supporting arm with his flesh-and-blood fingers and clutched it urgently. “Where is she?”

“Right here, Malfoy.” Madam Pomfrey moved up to the bed, Lily cradled in her arms and now lying quietly. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Yes.”

“Potter, you’d better help.”

Harry promptly slipped his arms up to support Draco’s and guided his hands as he accepted the swaddled bundle from Pomfrey. Together, they held their daughter cradled against Draco’s body. Harry looked down at her face, feeling again that jolt of wonder and delight when he saw the miniature version of Draco Malfoy looking back up at him. And this time, he knew that the emotions were all his.

“Blimey,” Ron breathed. He bent over the baby from Draco’s left, his eyes starred with amazement, a smile blossoming across his face. “She looks just like you, Ferret!”

“You won’t hold it against her, will you?”

“Nah. She’s wears it better than you.”

Draco lifted his blank eyes to find Ron and his features were softer than anyone other than Harry had ever seen them. “I saw her, Weasel. I saw her face.”

“Iffy? But…” He stared intently at the other boy, trying and failing to convince himself that those opaque, grey eyes could see him. “How?”

“Harry showed me.”

Ron glanced up at Harry, then back down at the baby lying so comfortably in her parents’ arms. “Can you see her now?”

“If I went through the link, but that’s not a good idea.”

“No, Mr. Malfoy, it most definitely is not,” Dumbledore interjected. His voice was kind but implacable. “I think it’s time to get you settled in your own room and cut that link.”

“I won’t go through it. I promise.”

“I believe you, but I think that both you and Harry will be better off once it’s cut. It will remove temptation.”

Draco’s expression dimmed, the happiness of having his love, his friend and his daughter close by draining out of him. “When you cut it, will I…” He hesitated, then tried again. “Will I die, Professor?”

“I think not. You’ll be very weak and in a great deal of pain, but we can help with that. Madam Pomfrey will give you one of her Every-Flavor potions and Harry will lend you some of his power—through less drastic means than a Blood Link.”

“Why is it so drastic? We’ve done it before.”

“But not after one of you has cut all ties with his own body and taken up residence in the other. That is a very dangerous thing to do. It weakens your hold on yourself, as a separate person, and strengthens your connection to Harry in ways we can’t predict or control.”

“I trust Harry.”

“We all do, my boy, and we trust you. But we can’t risk either one of you slipping through the link and losing himself in a misguided attempt to protect, strengthen, or simply to comfort the other. Like the charm that produced Lily, your use of the link is alien territory to us. We don’t know what its longterm effects will be. All we know for certain is that we won’t risk your life or Harry’s again.”

Draco nodded, but his face remained pinched with worry. Dumbledore gazed at him for a moment, then asked, kindly, “What is it, Draco? Are you afraid?”

“No. It’s Lily. I thought I’d have a little more time with her.”

“You have all the time you want.”

“But, if you’re cutting the link…” He shifted his hold on the little body in his arms, as if about to hold it out to the Headmaster.

“That changes nothing.” Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder, gripping it reassuringly. “She’s your daughter. Your child and your responsibility.”

Blank, quicksilver eyes lifted to his face, wide with mingled hope and disbelief. “I can keep her with me?”

“Of course you can.” Dumbledore gave him a little shake and added, a glimmer of amusement in his voice, “I would suggest, while you’re recuperating, that you let us help you care for her, but I wouldn’t dream of taking your child away from you.”

“She won’t like the Slytherin dungeon.”

The old wizard chuckled softly. “It’s going to be a long time before you’re ready to return to the dungeon. I think we can work out a compromise by then.” He gave Draco another minute to think, then said, “You relax and get acquainted with your daughter. Madam Pomfrey, Madam Fox and I will arrange more appropriate quarters for you and Miss Malfoy. Harry, make him comfortable, but remain cautious about how you use that link.”

“I will, Professor,” Harry murmured.

Dumbledore swept the other adults away with him, leaving Harry, Draco and Ron alone with the baby. Ron perched on the edge of the mattress, his eyes lingering delightedly on Lily’s face. He reached out to stroke her cheek with a finger and laughed when she smacked her lips.

“She’s really something. Hi there, Iffy. I’m you’re Uncle Ron.”

“Why do you call her that?” Harry asked.

“What? Iffy? That’s her name.”

“It is not,” Draco said firmly.

“Sure it is. I was going to call her Ermine, but Iffy is much better.”

“What are you babbling about?” Harry demanded.

“Ermine. It’s a kind of ferret.”

“I know what an ermine is. What I don’t know is why you’d call Draco’s daughter that. No, wait…”

Ron chuckled and tickled the baby’s cheek again. “Like I said, Iffy is better. It’s short for Iphigenia.”

“Iphigenia? Seriously?” He bent to bring his head close to Draco’s and said into his ear,“You didn’t name your daughter Iphigenia, did you?”

“After my Auntie Genie,” Draco murmured. He was wilting back against Harry, his eyes drooping closed, and only Harry’s arms beneath his kept the baby safely in place. “Only woman in my family I like.”

“Maybe you’d better lie down,” Harry said.

“Nnngh. No. Hold Iffy. I mean, Lily.”

Ron laughed triumphantly at that. “I told you Iffy was better! He’s right, though, Ferret. You don’t look so good.”

“Just tired.”

“Give me Iffy, just for a second, while you lie down.” Ron reached for the baby, but when he tried to take her, Draco tightened his hold. “I’ll stay right here beside the bed with her. I swear.”

Draco reluctantly allowed Ron to lift the little body from his arms, then let Harry settle him back against the pillow. He looked thin and white and drawn, without Harry’s power filling him, but he held out his hands for the baby and Ron settled her on his chest. She burrowed her face into the flannel of his pajamas, her little fists curled to either side of her head, and closed her eyes.

“Blimey,” Ron whispered.

Almost as soon as their bodies fell still, both mother and child were asleep. Harry smiled down at them, sending a wash of wizarding power through Draco’s body to ease the pain and let him sink deeper into unconsciousness. Then he looked up at Ron. The other boy was standing with one hand on Lily’s back and a look of doting fondness on his face. Harry couldn’t tell which of them—Lily or Draco—had inspired that look, but he didn’t really care. It made him ridiculously happy anyway.

“Did he really name her Iphigenia?” Harry murmured.

Ron glanced up, surprised, then grinned broadly. “Too right. Lily Iphigenia Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry corrected. “Lily Iphigenia Potter Malfoy.”

“That’s a lot of names to live up to.”

“I think she can handle it. She is Draco’s daughter, after all.”

“And yours, Harry. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“I don’t.” He looked down at the sleeping baby and felt an expression every bit has helplessly adoring as Ron’s warm his face. “Not for one minute.”

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	11. Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry has to play the Hero and Draco has to talk to his mother.

****Once again, Dumbledore had summoned the Room of Requirement to act as a private hospital room. It was small and welcoming, draped in crimson curtains and lit with flickering lamps. A curtain closed off one corner, set up as a makeshift nursery with a cradle, changing table and rocking chair, but it was currently empty. A standard hospital wing bed stood against the righthand wall, with one chair placed close by its head and another pushed back against the wall.

Draco Malfoy lay in the bed, curled up on his side and sleeping heavily, his baby lying against his chest, protected by his arm. Harry sat in the nearest chair, watching them sleep with a dazed look on his face. Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey moved quietly about the room, putting the finishing touches on it and surreptitiously watching their patients.

Dumbledore finally drew up to the bed and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “How are you feeling, my boy?”

“Exhausted. And stunned.”

“Considering what you’ve been through today, I’m not surprised. And what you’ve accomplished.”

Harry sighed and stretched. “Would you believe me if I said I’d forgotten all about Voldemort?”

Dumbledore patted him in a fatherly way. “I’m glad. He’s not worth your attention. Unfortunately, there are a lot of people who don’t share my opinion. People we cannot afford to ignore forever.”

“Trouble?” Harry asked, frowning up at him.

“No. Not yet, at any rate. But I must ask you to do one more thing for me, today.”

His frown deepened. “What’s that?”

“Nothing too onerous, I hope. There are a lot of people—people who love you and who fought a great battle with you today—who are waiting to see that you’re alive and well. I know you’d much rather be here with Mr. Malfoy, but it would mean a great deal to them if you spent just a few minutes among them. Share their joy. Set their hearts at ease.”

“Must I?” Harry said with a sigh.

“This is the price of fame, my boy. You are a hero to them. Well, let’s face it, you’re a hero period. And most of them went to the island today for you.”

“They went to defeat Voldemort. That was for all of us.”

“Yes, but they followed you. And they fought with such courage because they believed in your ultimate victory. You are their leader, Harry, as well as their hero.” He patted Harry’s drooping shoulder again. “Take some time to relax here with Draco. When you’re ready to leave him for a while, tell Madam Pomfrey. She’ll take your place. Then join us in the Great Hall.”

Harry nodded wearily.

“Don’t leave him alone,” Madam Pomfrey cautioned. “He should rest comfortably for several hours, but let me know if he has any pain. Or if the child needs anything.”

“I will.”

“I’ll be on the ward, looking after the others.”

Harry just nodded again and turned back to his sleeping love. He remained seated by the bed, watching Draco and Lily sleep, for more than an hour and was beginning to drift toward sleep himself when he heard a knock on the door. Starting up, he looked around in confusion, wondering who could possibly be looking for him who couldn’t just open the door with a password. Perhaps, he thought, his stomach sinking, it was Mrs. Weasley come to ambush him. But Dumbledore wouldn’t let her onto the ward, knowing how tired and ill-equipped to deal with her Harry was.

The intruder knocked again, and Harry got stiffly to his feet. He pulled his wand from his pocket as he crossed the room, just in case. Then he put his hand on the latch, muttered his password, and pulled the door open.

At the sight of the regal figure confronting him, Harry felt himself stiffen and the blood drain from his face. He started to raise his wand, then realized that the woman confronting him was empty-handed and let his own hand fall again.

“What do you want?”

Narcissa Malfoy stared at him with cold, haughty, blue eyes and said, “I want to speak with my son.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to Professor Moody, who stood a few paces behind her. He nodded once, telling Harry that Mrs. Malfoy was there with Dumbledore’s permission. Shifting his gaze back to her, Harry gave her back glare for glare and said, shortly, “I’ll ask him if he wants to see you.”

He shut the door without waiting for her to respond and padded back over to the bed. Draco was still asleep, but he was stirring slightly, his hand opening and closing around Lily. Harry knew that he could wake him with a word.

“Draco?” He stroked the sleeping boy’s hair. “Draco, wake up.”

Silver-blond lashes twitched.

“Wake up, Dragon.”

His eyes opened, and his gaze tracked over to find Harry in the darkness. “Mm.”

“Are you awake?”

“Mm.”

That sounded like an affirmative grunt, so Harry petted his hair again, briefly, and said, “Your mother is here.”

He stirred at that, making an effort to drag himself back into focus. “My mother?”

“She wants to talk to you.”

Forgetting that he no longer had the Blood Link to draw on, Draco tried to sit up. The color abruptly drained from his face, leaving it a dirty grey-white, and he closed his eyes tightly.

“Lie still.” Harry clasped his head and let his soothing, warming power flow over the suffering boy. “Don’t try to move.”

“Bloody hell, it hurts!” Draco gasped, his voice a ragged, soundless whisper.

“Shh.” Harry let the power flow for another moment or two, then he bent and brushed a kiss to Draco’s forehead. “It’ll be better in a minute.”

He waited until Draco’s breathing had evened out and the white sickness had left his face, then he tried again. “Do you want to talk to your mum?”

“Yes.”

“I can stay here with you, if you want, or I can leave you alone with her.”

“Alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not afraid of my mother, Harry.”

“Okay.” He took a peek at Lily, to make sure she was still sleeping, then he dropped another kiss on Draco’s head. “I’ll bring her in.”

Crossing back to the door, Harry pulled it open and stepped aside to let Narcissa enter. He followed her over to the bed, moving protectively up to Draco’s side.

“Professor Moody and Madam Pomfrey will be right outside,” he said, speaking more to Draco than to his mother. “If you need them, just call.”

“Where are you going?” Draco asked in his hollow whisper.

“Dumbledore wants to see me. But I won’t be gone long, and Professor Moody can fetch me anytime.” He clasped Draco’s hand for a moment, then let him go with obvious reluctance. Turning to Narcissa, he said, “Don’t leave him in here alone. If you have to go before I get back, call Madam Pomfrey.”

She nodded regally, not deigning to meet his eyes.

As if challenging Narcissa to protest, he bent to kiss Draco a final time. “I’ll be back soon.”

Narcissa stood in stiff silence as Harry crossed to the door again, no part of her except her eyes moving, until the door had shut behind him. Then, as she turned back to the bed, the haughtiness abruptly drained from her. By the time she dropped her hand to touch her son’s shoulder, she was a no longer a disdainful monarch, but only an uncertain, grieving woman at a loss for words.

She folded herself into the conveniently-placed chair and clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, Draco’s gaze intent enough to convince his mother that his opaque, grey eyes could actually see her. Then she summoned her courage to speak.

“Hello, Draco.” He said nothing. She swallowed her discomfort and spoke again, her voice rough with emotion she would not acknowledge. “Thank you for letting me past your guards. I wasn’t sure you would.”

Still, Draco said nothing, just stared at her with that unnerving, blind gaze, and Narcissa’s rigid control cracked. Her face crumpled. Silent, secret tears began to slip from her eyes, unseen by her son.

“I wanted to see for myself that you and Lily are safe. I heard some of what happened during the battle, and I was afraid for you.”

“I’ll be all right,” he finally said, in his pale, ghostly whisper, “but your master is dead.”

She nodded, then remembered that the gesture was wasted on her son. “Yes, they told me.”

“Are you sorry, Mother? Or happy?”

“Happy for you. For everyone who stood against him. For myself… It makes little difference, I expect.”

“You stood against him, too.”

“No. I made a choice to save my grandchild and help my son. It had nothing to do with who won the battle. And as a person with no side, no allies, I have no stake in its outcome.” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Don’t worry about me, Draco. I’ll take whatever punishment is coming to me. It’s enough that my final choice was the right one. Seeing you here with Lily assures me of that, and that will be my comfort.”

“Where will you go? The Ministry has taken everything, including the Manor. We have no home.”

“I haven’t given it much thought. I may find myself in prison with the rest of the Dark Lord’s servants, but if not… well, I’m a Black as well as a Malfoy, and the Blacks take care of their own. I’ll find someplace to go.”

Draco hesitated for a moment, then asked, quietly, “Will I see you again?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for walking out of that dungeon and leaving me there. But you saved my daughter and sent Harry to find me. Without you, I’d be dead and Lily would be in Voldemort’s hands. I can’t forget that.”

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness, or for your thanks. I simply wanted to see you, one last time, and tell you that I love you. Whatever you may have thought, whatever my actions may have shown, I do love you, Draco. And I love your daughter, my precious grandchild, the last of the Malfoys.”

“She’s also a Potter.”

“I’m fully aware of that.”

“Can you love the Potter part of her?”

She answered instantly and firmly. “With all my heart.”

Once again, Draco hesitated, turning over her words and the meaning behind the tears in her voice, wondering how far her change of heart went, then he shifted his arm to reveal the little body curled so trustingly against his ribs. “Would you like to see her again?”

A startled smile lit the tears in Narcissa’s eyes. “You’d allow me that?”

“You saved her life, Mother. I think I can trust you to hold her for a few minutes.”

Eagerly, she reached to lift the baby out of her warm nest. When Lily felt hands on her, taking her away from her mother, she flailed her arms and gave a wail of protest, but before she could work herself up in to a real snit, she recognized the arms cradling her as ones she could trust. She promptly snuggled down to continue her nap.

Narcissa gazed down at her with a look of doting fondness on her face that would have amazed her son, could he have seen it. “She looks so much like you. A perfect little Malfoy beauty.”

“Let’s hope my looks are the only thing she inherited from the Malfoys.”

Narcissa cocked her head to one side and regarded him sadly. “What of her name? Is that all Potter?”

“Funny you should mention that. Harry is as anxious that she be a Malfoy in name as you are, so we called her Lily Iphigenia Potter Malfoy.”

“Ah!” Her tears quickened and her smile brightened. “After your Auntie Genie! So, she’s a little bit Black, as well.”

“A bit of everything. Pureblood snob, freedom fighter, healer, saint, troublemaker and pathological hero.”

Narcissa laughed at that, the sound faintly soggy with tears. “Which one are you?”

“Oh, I’m the Ferret. Or an archangel with a flaming sword, depending on who you talk to.”

“I don’t have to ask who came up with that description.” She paused, then ventured, “He loves you very much, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t want to discuss Harry with you.”

“No.” Her smile faded, leaving her sad again and a touch wistful. “I don’t suppose you do.”

She stroked Lily’s cheek again, thoughtfully, then shifted forward in her chair to lay the baby on the bed. Draco found her with his flesh-and-blood hand and tucked her securely against him. She turned her face into the flannel of his shirt, cooing softly in contentment.

Narcissa smiled at the sound. “I had given up hope of being a grandmother.”

“I never intended to be a father. Or a mother. I have no bloody idea how I’m going to do it.”

“You and Potter will figure it out together, just like all new parents.” He shot her a warning look, and she chuckled. “I’m not treading on forbidden ground, simply offering my fair share of grandmotherly wisdom. You’ll find that having a baby makes you fair game for every pushy know-it-all who wants to pontificate about the wonders of motherhood or the perils of childrearing, always larded with tales of their own triumphs and tragedies. And grandmothers are the very worst.”

Draco suddenly stretched out his hand to her, waiting for her to take it. She clasped his fingers, then, on an impulse, pressed a kiss to his hand. He let his eyes drift closed and a fractional smile tilt his lips. Narcissa hesitated, afraid to overstep, then bent to drop another kiss on his forehead.

“Thank you for this, Draco.”

* * *

Harry straightened his shoulders and stepped through the lofty doors, into the crowded Hall. For a blessed minute, no one noticed his arrival and he had a chance to absorb what was happening around him. He saw knots of people—students, parents, wizards he had known for years as leading the fight against Voldemort and others he did not recognize—grouped all about the room, sitting on benches, standing together. At first it looked like chaos. Then he slowly began to sort it all out and see the patterns.

Families clung together, the Weasleys at one end of the dais, Neville and his grandmother at the Gryffindor table, Hannah Bones with her grandmother and a couple who could only be her parents. Members of the Order of the Phoenix stood in a clump beneath the great Hogwarts banner at the top end of the room, while wizards from the Ministry, who had come when called to battle, hovered at the edge of the group. Students gathered by House, but the boundaries were blurred. Vincent Crabbe sat with the Hufflepuffs. Luna Lovegood drifted amongst the Gryffindors until Neville caught her arm and drew her over to meet his grandmother.

Then, just as Harry was bracing himself to enter the fray, a piercing voice called above the din, “There he is! _Harry!_ ”

He turned to see Colin Creevey bearing down on him. And considering what Colin had endured at Voldemort’s hands, Harry could not rebuff him. He greeted the cheering boy with a wan smile and allowed himself to be pulled into the throng.

Word quickly spread that Harry Potter was among them. Hands reached to touch him, grasp his hand, pat him on the back. Faces smiled at him, full of pride and wonder and gratitude, until he wanted to squirm with embarrassment and duck under a table to escape them. He didn’t stay long with any one group. Too many people needed to see, hear and touch him. Slowly, inexorably, he worked his way toward the far end of the room and the people whom he most dreaded and loved.

Then he was up on the dais, greeting Hagrid, Sirius and Remus Lupin. Hagrid nearly smothered him in his huge arms and moleskin coat. “Yeh did it, Harry,” he said through enormous tears. “Yeh really did it.”

“We all did it,” Harry said, smiling crookedly up at the half-giant.

Before Hagrid could launch into a paean of praise for Harry’s bravery and brilliance, Sirius stepped in to grab and shake his hand.

“James would be so proud,” he muttered gruffly, bringing unwelcome tears to Harry’s eyes.

“We’re all proud,” Lupin added, with a wan smile. “But you look as if you haven’t processed it all, Harry.”

“I haven’t. I’ve been busy.”

“How’s Malfoy? I only caught a glimpse of him before Dumbledore hustled us all off the island.”

“He’s alive, and he’s going to be all right, but it was close. Very close.”

Remus clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll see him through.”

“What was it, exactly, that Voldemort did to him?” Sirius asked. “Dumbledore’s being very tightlipped about it.”

“If he hasn’t said anything, I probably shouldn’t, either,” Harry replied. “All that matters is that Draco made it home alive, and I’ll see he stays that way.”

“Good for you, Harry.” Sirius gripped his shoulder and gave him a shake, his normally haunted eyes looking far more present and alight than Harry had ever seen them, and he was actually smiling. “Everyone deserves one person who will put them first. Even a Malfoy.”

Harry grinned, then, without stopping to think about it, pulled Sirius into a fierce hug. In the older man’s ear he whispered, “I’m a father, Sirius. But don’t tell anyone!”

Sirius backed off and stared at him, dumbstruck, until another voice broke in on them.

“Harry! Oh, my dear boy!”

Harry let go of Sirius and turned to meet Mrs. Weasley as she came surging toward him, arms outstretched. “Hallo, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Harry!” She flung her arms around him, enfolding him in a warm hug. “You did it, Harry! You saved my children. You saved our entire world! Oh, Harry, my dear, how can I ever thank you?” Her arms tightened about him again, and he found himself nearly choking in her embrace.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Weasley. Please…”

“Leave off, Mum,” Bill said, grinning at Harry over his mother’s shoulder. “You’re going to squeeze the life out of him.”

When Mrs. Weasley finally released him, he found himself confronting a grinning Bill and Charlie, a stammering and flushing Mr. Weasley, and a chortling Ron, who was still incongruously dressed in his hospital wing pajamas.

“Glad you finally showed up, mate,” Ron said. “Mum was about to lay siege to the hospital wing.”

“I came as soon as I could.”

“I know.” Ron gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I tried to tell them you were busy.”

“I’m really glad to see you, Mrs. Weasley. Mr. Weasley. I saw you on the island but I didn’t have time to make sure you all got off okay. Was anyone hurt?”

Mr. Weasley spoke up, talking over his wife’s head. “Fred and George suffered some burns, but nothing serious. And Percy got knocked on the head.”

“Did him good,” Charlie remarked, rolling his eyes humorously.

“Percy was there?”

“He showed up during the battle,” Mr. Weasley said, his chest swelling with pride. “I always knew he’d come to his senses.”

“So he’s broken with Fudge?”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Percy is a born bureaucrat, and I don’t think he’ll ever distance himself from the Ministry, but he knew he couldn’t sit this one out and still call himself a Weasley. So he showed up when it really counted.”

“Good on him!”

“Yes.” Mr. Weasley’s expression turned anxious. “How are you doing, my boy? Dumbledore hustled us all off the island before we got a chance to speak with you, then wouldn’t let us into the hospital wing. Were you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.”

Mr. Weasley looked suddenly uneasy, as if aware that he was potentially unleashing disaster with his next words, and asked, “What about Malfoy?”

“He’ll be all right, but it’ll take a while.”

Mrs. Weasley’s kindly face tightened in distress and distaste. “I’m so sorry that you had to deal with this now. You should be celebrating.”

“I should be with Draco,” Harry said, firmly.

“A lot of people are anxious to…”

“A lot of people can wait,” Harry declared, flatly. “Draco needs me and he comes first. Always.” He fixed her with his intent gaze, willing her to understand and accept his words. She backed off, her eyes sliding to one side in discomfort. “You know that’s how I feel, Mrs. Weasley. Nothing’s changed.”

“Hasn’t it? Only, the Dark Lord is dead and you’re free to choose the life you want…”

“Yes. A life with Draco. That was always what I wanted.” He took her hand and gazed straight into her troubled, brown eyes. “You need to understand and accept that, or say good bye to me. Whatever happens from now on, Draco and I will be together, and where he goes, I go. If he’s not welcome, then neither am I.”

“I’d say that’s pretty clear, Mum,” Charlie interjected. Then he held out a broad, scarred hand to Harry that enveloped his. “Good work today, Harry. And thank you, from all of us. Pass that along to Malfoy, will you?”

Harry grinned. “I will.”

“Tell him that some of us know what he did, and we won’t forget. Also tell him, I look forward to meeting him when he’s up to it.”

“Oh, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley sobbed, pulling him into another smothering hug. “My dearest boy. You’re always welcome in our home and our family.”

Harry murmured his thanks without asking if that invitation extended to his other half. He didn’t really want to know, just now. He simply wanted to enjoy the affection of his adoptive family without further conflict. He had, quite frankly, had enough conflict to last him a lifetime.

* * *

Sometime later, when Harry finally made his way back to the hospital wing and the Room of Requirement, he found Draco lying peacefully in his bed and Narcissa Malfoy seated quietly beside him. Mrs. Malfoy looked up at his entrance and, without hesitation, rose to leave. She favored Harry with a disdainful look and a fractional nod as she approached the door, but the regal effect was slightly deflated by the fact that she couldn’t open the door without a password and had to wait for him to spell it open for her. He swung the door open wide, watched her leave and Professor Moody swoop down on her, then closed the door with a happy sigh. He was alone with his family at last.

Returning to the bed, he bent over Draco and murmured, “Hallo, beautiful.”

“Harry.”

“Right the first time. What did your mother want?”

“To say sorry. I think. Malfoys aren’t very good at apologies.”

Harry chuckled and dropped wearily into the chair. “I think Mrs. Weasley had the same idea. And the same problem.”

“Is that where you were? Playing hero for the masses?”

Harry grunted in disgust but didn’t deny it. “Next time, you can do the honors.”

Draco started to laugh but swallowed it abruptly when the movement ignited a tearing pain in his belly. “Fat chance.”

“They’ll come around, Dragon. I know they will.” He dropped a hand to Draco’s head and stroked his hair, then asked, quietly, “Do you need anything? A drink? Another pain potion?”

“Nngh. No. But Lily needs a fresh nappy.”

Harry took a sniff and grimaced. “Eurgh!” He lifted the baby from her comfortable spot against Draco’s chest, sheltered by his arm and a nest of blankets. “I’ll change her.”

“Do you know how?”

“I’ll figure it out. How hard can it be?”

Draco was still smiling in a way that said he wished he could laugh when Harry finally returned, a freshly-changed baby in his arms, and settled her back in place.

“So, how hard was it?”

“Don’t ask. She doesn’t stink, and that’s all you need to know.” Folding himself into the chair, Harry looped an arm around Draco’s shoulders and clasped his head. “How was it, talking to your mum?”

“Okay. I missed you.”

“I always miss you when I’m more than two feet away.” He brushed a kiss to Draco’s lips and smiled when he felt them part in invitation. “Not now, my dragon. You need your rest.”

“I need you close to me.”

“I am. I’m right here.” He rested his chin on the mattress, bringing his face within a few inches of Draco’s and murmured, “I’m always right here, with you.”

Draco’s eyes fixed on him as perfectly as if he could see him there, just a handspan away. He smiled. “I love you, Harry.”

The sudden, ecstatic swell of happiness in Harry nearly burst his heart, but he kept all hint of it out of his voice when he murmured, “And I love you, Dragon.” He kissed Draco again, gently. “Now sleep. Sleep and dream of the day you’re completely healed and I can shag you senseless.”

“Mm.” Draco’s eyes drifted closed. “My very own dementor lover.”

“No. Hush.” Another kiss, and a stroke of his hand on silver-gilt hair, and Draco’s breathing began to slow. “No dementors. Just your very own Harry. Dream about me.”

Draco exhaled on a long, happy sigh. He was smiling as he sank into dreams.

 

**_To be continued…_ **

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Once More Unto the Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when the boys think it's all over, Fudge rears his ugly head again. The Ministry goes after Draco for use of illegal magic.

****In the inimitable way of secrets at Hogwarts, the fact of Lily’s birth had spread to the entire school by morning, though no two people seemed to have heard the same story. All anyone agreed upon was that Draco Malfoy had returned from You-Know-Who’s clutches with an infant of dubious origins in tow. The euphoria that gripped all of Wizarding Britain was even more pronounced in the castle, and the general high spirits softened the attitude of many to the despised Malfoy, so the stories were not as lurid as they would have been a mere week before, but even the less salacious stories would have burned Harry’s ears, had anyone dared whisper them in his vicinity.

Chased out of the hospital wing to get a shower and a good meal by Madam Pomfrey, he joined his friends at the Gryffindor table and tucked into a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages. Ron sat with him, looking a bit pale and ragged around the edges, but already starting to warm and expand under the avid attention of his classmates. He was one of the returning heroes, and unlike most of them, he had been conscious through the whole thing, so nearly everyone who could pretend to know him stopped by the table to demand details about his captivity and the final battle. They knew better than to ask Harry about any of it, for which he was grateful, but at times he felt he would rather be in Ron’s shoes than his own. Even deflecting avid questions about Voldemort’s defeat would be better than all the starry-eyed, wondering gazes and gushing congratulations of people who, only a few days ago, had treated him with contempt or suspicion.

Ron was showing admirable restraint, especially considering how many years he had spent living in Harry’s shadow. He thanked a gaggle of Ravenclaw Third Years for their well-wishes, refused to tell them what You-Know-Who really looked like, and dismissed them by turning back to his breakfast.

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked, when they had a moment to themselves. “Still in the hospital wing?”

“She’s supposed to get out this morning, but she said she wanted to visit Malfoy, first. If Madam Pomfrey will let her into his room.”

“I don’t know. She’s being pretty sticky about visitors.”

“Yeah, but this is Hermione we’re talking about. No adult can resist her.”

Harry chuckled and shoveled in another forkful of eggs.

“How is Malfoy?” Ginny asked. She sat across the table from him, with Dean beside her, and at her question, all of the Gryffindors in hearing fell still, listening.

Harry glanced up at her, carefully ignoring the others, and said, “Okay. The healers say he’ll mend.” He hesitated for a moment, then decided that it would serve Draco well to have the real story added to the pile of gossip and added, in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “It was close. He was nearly dead when Snape found him, and helping me take on Voldemort almost did for him. But the healer from St. Mungo’s, his Auntie Genie, pulled him through. Now he just has to rest and heal.”

“That’s the auntie you named the baby after, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded, privately wondering whether he was grateful to Ginny for introducing Lily to the conversation so neatly or so embarrassed that he’d like to crawl under the table.

“How is she?”

To Harry’s surprise, the question did not come from Ginny, but from Seamus. He sat on Dean’s other side and had kept his gaze firmly on his plate since Malfoy had crept into the conversation. His voice sounded stiff, but there was no hostility in it, and it took Harry only a split second to decide that the question was meant as a peace offering.

A swift, happy smile swept over his face, as he said, “Brilliant! Madam Pomfrey says she’s perfectly healthy.”

“And the most beautiful baby ever born,” Ron interjected, “even if she does look like her mum.”

That remark brought the conversation to a tense, screeching halt, but Harry refused to let them all lose the ground they’d gained, so he said, cheerfully, “All she does is sleep and eat and cry. And she doesn’t even cry much.”

Colin Creevey piped up, in his penetrating voice, “Oh, that’s what they all do! Give her a few weeks and she’ll learn how to smile, then you’ll really have some fun with her!”

“How do you know so much about it?” Ron demanded.

Colin rolled his eyes. “All my mum does is have babies. The house is full of them. She had another one this summer—cute little grub—and I got to take care of him till school started. Hey!” He fixed his high-wattage grin on Harry and said, almost bouncing in his seat with eagerness, “Maybe he and Iffy will go to Hogwarts together!”

“What did you call her?” Harry demanded, already knowing the answer and where Colin had learned the name.

“Iffy! That’s her name, isn’t it?”

Harry groaned and shook his head, while Ron and Ginny grinned at him. “Give it up, Harry,” Ginny said. “For better or worse, she’s Iffy.”

“I don’t suppose anyone cares that her name is Lily, and Iphigenia is a dreadful name, and calling her Iffy is just… barmy?”

“She is little Iffy Malfoy,” Ron said firmly, “the Baby Ferret.”

“Bloody Hell,” Harry groaned again, letting his head sink into his hands. “Please don’t ever say that in front of Draco!”

“He’ll approve.”

Harry shot Ron an appalled look. “He won’t… Will he? Oh, lord.”

Ron fairly cackled at his evident distress, and crowed, “We’re the Rodent Triplets, Weasel, Ferret and Ferret.”

“It sounds like a Law firm,” Ginny mused.

Before Harry could respond to this, he saw Professor Dumbledore come striding into the Hall headed directly toward him. Something about the look on his face sent a jolt of alarm down Harry’s spine, and he was not at all surprised with the Headmaster came to a stop at his side.

Placing a calming hand on his shoulder, Dumbledore bent down to murmur in his ear, “I need to speak with you, Harry.”

Harry nodded and climbed over the bench. They made for the wide doors, while a storm of whispered conjectures broke out at the Gryffindor table. It wasn’t until they reached the comparative privacy of the entry hall that Harry realized that Ron had followed them. Dumbledore registered his presence with a glance and turned to Harry, tacitly inviting Ron to join them.

“What’s wrong, Professor?” Harry asked, the familiar tension clenching at his innards.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps nothing. But we have been summoned to the Ministry.”

“Summoned?” Harry didn’t like the sound of that. “Don’t you mean, invited?”

“No, it is most definitely a summons.”

“But… we haven’t done anything wrong, have we?”

“We’ll find out, soon enough.”

Harry had a sudden, sickening vision of the Wizengamot dungeon, the chair with its chains, and tier upon tier of hostile faces rising above him. “I can’t believe this. Didn’t we just win a war for them?!”

“Relax, my boy. It may be nothing but Fudge flexing his muscles. But I do think we should be prompt and courteous in our response—at least initially.”

Harry detected a certain fierceness in the Headmaster’s demeanor that he found simultaneously reassuring and unnerving. A fierce Dumbledore was a force to be reckoned with, but it took a lot to make the old wizard this angry, and Harry had endured enough fraught confrontations to last him a lifetime.

“Make yourself presentable,” Dumbledore said, “and come to my office when you’re ready. Did you actually get to eat your breakfast?”

“Enough.”

“Good. Then use your judgment about how fast to move. Prompt and courteous, but not obsequious. That’s the ticket.”

Harry started for the stairs with Ron beside him. “What do you think it is?” he asked worriedly.

“Who bloody knows?” Harry retorted bitterly. “Leave it to Fudge to ruin our first day of peace and quiet with a _summons!_ Probably another of his foul hearings. But I’m telling you, Ron, if I have to sit there and listen to Dolores Umbridge telling her sickly-sweet lies, I’m going to lose it and hex her!” He stomped up another few stairs and growled, his voice hard with determination and a touch of bravado, “I beat Voldemort, and now they expect me to cow-tow to Cornelius Fudge? Well, it’s not going to happen!”

“You tell ‘em, mate.”

They reached the hospital wing, and Harry led the way onto the ward. Madam Pomfrey was bustling about, tending to her few patients. She nodded to Harry as he crossed to the inner door.

“Is Draco alone?” Harry asked her, startled.

“Granger is with him.”

“Told you,” Ron muttered, grinning.

Harry smiled as he murmured his password to the door. It swung open, and the two boys stepped through it, into the warm, quiet, crimson-hung Room of Requirement. Hermione was sitting quietly by the bed, while Draco slept, sprawled on his back, with Lily dozing on his chest.

Hermione rose as they came in. She looked decidedly peaky and ill, but the smile she gave to Harry was brilliant, and her eyes glowed with a combination of joy and tears.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, as she greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, “I knew you could do it!”

Harry gave her a hug, then stepped past her to reach the bed. “How is he?”

“Sleeping. Madam Pomfrey dosed him up and he passed out.”

“Did you get a chance to talk?”

“Yes.” She sniffled and smiled, her eyes dwelling fondly on the sleeping man and baby. “I told him I’d knit some Gryffindor booties for Iffy as soon as I get out of here.”

Harry chuckled at that, thinking of Hermione’s previous knitting projects—hats to free the house-elves against their will. “Make a Slytherin pair, too.”

“Oh, no. She’s a Gryffindor, I can tell. The littlest Gryffindor.”

He rolled his eyes and whispered, “Give me a minute with him, will you? But don’t go far,” he added, when they headed for the door. “He can’t be alone, and I have to leave the castle for a while.”

“We’ll be right outside,” Ron assured him.

Harry nodded his thanks and bent over his sleeping love.

* * *

Nearly an hour later—Harry was in no hurry to obey Fudge’s orders—the Boy Who Lived appeared in a fireplace in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Harry stepped out of the green flames, dusted off his robes, and walked calmly across the open space at Dumbledore’s side. Every head in the room came up at his entrance, every pair of eyes followed him, and every face brightened at the sight of their conquering hero in their midst. After years of shifting attitudes, conflicting stories, rumor, innuendo, and outright suspicion, all of Wizarding Britain seemed ready to embrace Harry as their savior. All except Cornelius Fudge. As he walked the gauntlet of all those adoring eyes, Harry couldn’t help wondering if maybe Fudge wasn’t the most honest of them all. At least he admitted how much he resented Harry.

The guard at the gates checked in their wands, favoring Harry with something as close to a simper as a grown man could manage, and told them that the Minister was waiting for them in his office. This seemed like a good sign to Harry, who had only ever attended hearings in the dungeon Courtroom. How intimidating could one office be? And how many hostile witches and wizards could it hold at one time?

They rode the lift to the first floor and stepped out into a corridor lined with shining mahogany doors.

“This way, Harry.”

Dumbledore led him down the corridor to their left, their feet silent on the thick carpet. They turned a corner, walked past more offices, then abruptly stepped out into a wide, lofty space, lit by a curved glass ceiling that showed the London sky outside. Harry knew that the view was produced magically, partly because the entire Ministry was below street level and partly because the view had been subtly enhanced to remove the high, morning clouds that dulled the sun. The bright sunlight that flooded the space seemed unnaturally cheerful.

Dumbledore led him across the open space, skirting a grouping of chairs set out for visitors, and up to a set of large, heavy, carved doors. Harry didn’t have time to read the plaque set into the righthand door, because they both swung open at his approach. He followed Dumbledore inside.

The office of the Minister for Magic looked exactly as Harry might have expected, knowing Fudge. It was full of dark wood, brass ornaments, heavily-carved furniture, and decorations intended to impress upon the visitor a sense of its occupant’s importance. Glancing around, he thought that this must have been what the Mayor of London’s office looked like—circa 1850. He didn’t recognize any of the portraits staring curiously down at him from the papered walls—none of them were Hogwarts Headmasters or Black ancestors—but he did recognize most of the people who rose to their feet to greet him.

Fudge came first, pudgy hand outstretched and a smug, false smile stretching his cheeks. Then came Amelia Bones, Kingsley Shacklebolt, a tall man with a lion’s mane of hair and a limp who Harry knew was the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and, to his surprise, Percy Weasley. There were a few others, including a healer in St. Mungo’s robes, who looked remarkably sour. Harry made a point of greeting Madam Bones and Kingsley with particular warmth. He withheld judgment on the Auror, introduced as Rufus Scrimgeour, and the healer. He greeted Percy with a quizzical look that drew rolled eyes and a nervous half-smile from the other man. Clearly, Percy would have liked to rush up to Harry and wring his hand, but he was afraid of Fudge’s reaction.

“Have a seat Dumbledore, Potter, at the big table, if you please.” Fudge was still trying to be pleasant, but the familiar note of querulous command was creeping into his voice. “We need to get started. There, Dumbledore, there’s a chair for you. And Harry…”

Harry approached a huge, weighty, antique table set with candelabra and a scattering of dirty tea cups that betrayed how long they had been waiting for Dumbledore’s arrival. He pointedly pulled out the chair next to Dumbledore, ignoring the one Fudge was indicating at his right hand. Madam Bones gave her grim smile and took the chair next to Fudge.

“Yes, yes. Excellent. Everyone here? Anyone need a refill?” Fudge looked around expectantly, his wand in his hand, as though eager to conjure more tea for his underlings, but they all shook their heads and waved away the offer. “Time to get down to business. First of all, I would like to say that we’re all tremendously proud of your achievement, Mr. Potter, and grateful for the victory you’ve given us. I think I speak for the entire wizarding world when I say, Bravo! Job well done!”

The entire table broke into applause, while Harry nodded and smiled shyly, privately wondering what came next.

“I have convened a session of the Wizengamot for next week to discuss honors for all those involved in this latest conflict, and I’m confident you’ll be looking at an Order of Merlin, First Class.”

More applause filled the room, but Harry was focused on one part of Fudge’s speech and paid no mind to the rest.

“You said, _all those involved,_ ” he said, quieting the others. “Does that include Draco Malfoy?”

“Ah. Hmm.” Fudge’s genial expression congealed into one of distaste. “That brings us to the purpose of this hearing.”

“Yes?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he gave Fudge one more chance to redeem himself, prompting, “You’re going to release him from Dumbledore’s guardianship and return the Malfoy estate to him?”

Fudge reddened. “On the contrary. Mr. Malfoy has openly violate the terms of his guardianship. The purpose of this hearing is to determine an appropriate punishment.”

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

*** *** ***

The low hum of voices outside his door brought Draco awake with a start. His arm automatically tightened around Lily, assuring him that she was tucked safely against his ribs where she belonged, then he relaxed. The voices sounded upset, even angry, but he was too tired to worry much about them. Weasley or Granger or Madam Pomfrey or another of his faithful guard would keep anyone from disturbing him while he and Lily slept. He only wished they would move farther from the door.

Lily stirred, yawned, and burrowed her face into his shirt. He opened his eyes to stare at the endless darkness, forcing his mind to stay alert in spite of his exhaustion, just in case Lily decided that she was hungry. But after a few aimless movements and baby noises, she settled down to sleep again, and Draco relaxed. He closed his eyes, though he knew it was pointless. Darkness was darkness. It didn't matter a damn whether he kept his eyes open or closed. But old habits had not yet deserted him, and when he wanted to rest, he felt the need to shut his eyes.

The room was unusually quiet, and it took him a few minutes to figure out why the silence made him so uneasy. Then he remembered—Harry was gone. He had brushed off Draco's questions with easy assurances that didn't fool him for a moment—no Gryffindor could lie well enough to fool a Slytherin—and promised to be back in a couple of hours. It was Ron who had told him the truth, as usual. Harry and Dumbledore had been called to the Ministry for a hearing.

The general unease settled into real fear in his stomach. Poor Harry was facing yet another hearing, answering for yet another crime committed by Draco, because Draco himself was in no condition to answer for it himself. It seemed that all Harry did anymore was try to pick up the pieces of his life after Draco had run roughshod through it, smashing everything in sight. Now Harry had to explain how his lover had allowed Voldemort to impregnate him with the Fecundus Charm and ended up with a baby. Draco knew that the charm Voldemort had used was forbidden by Wizarding Law, and he had technically broken that law by giving birth to Lily, but he had no idea what the punishment was for using the charm, and he couldn't conceive that they would actually blame Harry for any of this. He had been a prisoner of Voldemort, without the means to defend himself or end the pregnancy. Harry had not even been there. And no matter how illegal the charm, it was ridiculous to make an issue of it, now that the baby was born and everyone had come through it in one piece.

But if Draco had learned one thing in the last year, it was that the Minister for Magic and his cronies excelled at the ridiculous. Fudge had never missed an opportunity to torment Harry, humiliate Draco, and make himself look foolish. Much as he would like to think that common sense would prevail, Draco could not convince himself that Fudge would be any more reasonable about Lily than he had about the other unfortunate incidents in Draco's past. The only thing he could do was trust Dumbledore and Harry to sort things out. Again.

The voices rose in volume, and Draco caught a handful of words among the general racket. It was Madam Pomfrey, and she was in a royal snit. He didn't recognize the other voices, but he fancied one of them could be McGonagall.

He pushed himself up on an elbow, being careful not to disturb Lily, just as the door opened and several sets of footsteps came through it. The tension among the newcomers crackled audibly in the air. Draco frowned at them and instinctively drew Lily closer.

"Madam Pomfrey?"

"Yes, Malfoy. I'm sorry to disturb you, but…"

"That's quite enough, Poppy," another voice said. It was sickly sweet, rather oily, and too high for an adult, but there was a current of malice running through it that raised the hackles on Draco’s neck. He instantly recognized it as belonging to Dolores Umbridge. “I'll handle this.”

"You will not," Madam Pomfrey answered in frozen accents. "This is _my_ ward and _my_ patient. You have no business here without the Headmaster's permission!"

"I'm afraid you misunderstand the situation. I am not here on Hogwarts business, but on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, and my authority is unassailable."

McGonagall spoke up, and from her tone, Draco could tell that she was every bit as furious as Pomfrey. "That piece of parchment does not give you the right to disturb the students or invade the hospital ward, Dolores, and you know that. Come with me to Dumbledore's office, where you can wait…"

"There will be no waiting and no permission required, Minerva. I have all the authority I need." In a much harder voice, Umbridge snapped, "Get the baby."

Draco stiffened, scooping up Lily in his arms, and turned appalled eyes on the spot where he judged McGonagall to be. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Don't you _dare_ touch that child!" McGonagall growled, and Draco heard the rustle of wands being whipped out of robes.

"My instructions are quite clear," Umbridge cooed sickeningly. "If you interfere, you will be placed under arrest, Minerva, and anyone who assists you. That child is the property of the Ministry of Mag…"

" _No!_ " Draco shouted. Ignoring the pain in his body, he scrambled off the bed and put its bulk in between him and the threat coming out of the darkness at him. He held Lily in his right arm and, without stopping to think what he was doing, pointed his left hand at Umbridge. " _Don't you come near her!_ "

Instead of answering him, she spoke to one of her companions. "That hand acts as wand. If he opens his mouth again, stun him."

"Dolores," McGonagall started, but Umbridge cut her off.

"We'll wait on the decision of the Wizengamot to take _him_ into custody," her voice dripped contempt and vile sweetness, "but the child comes with us now."

"You can't do that!" Madam Pomfrey shouted.

"I can and I will." To her henchmen she said, sharply, "Get it. Now. And if he gives you any trouble, don't waste your time being gentle."

"She's not an it!" Draco shouted, clutching Lily tightly enough that she woke up and started to whimper. "And she's not your property!"

Someone loomed up to Draco's right. He instinctively withdrew to the left, only to find his shoulder up against a large, solid person. A hand closed on his arm. He tried to twist away without hurting Lily.

" _Get your filthy hands off of him!_ " McGonagall bellowed.

But the two silent wizards ignored her. Draco struggled in the grip of a man at least twice his size until it became clear to him that he could not break free. In desperation, he lifted his hand again, pointing it toward the evil Umbridge. The moment his finger leveled on her, chaos broke loose.

The wizard holding his arm wrenched it hard, making him let go of Lily. Draco screamed in fury, snatching at her with his left hand, even as both McGonagall and Pomfrey started shouting at once and spells burned through the air. His hand brushed Lily's blanket just as another set of hands snatched her out of the air and Lily began to howl in fury. Draco had a split second in which to realize that he had lost—that his baby was in the hands of some strange wizard who meant to take her away—then a stunning spell hit him square in the chest and his mind went blank.

* * *

" _Rennervate_."

With that word, Draco came back to himself. He was lying on the cold marble floor of his room, with Madam Pomfrey crouched beside him and a great, yawning emptiness in his chest. He gave a gasp and started up.

"Come along, Malfoy. You need to get back to bed."

“Lily." He clutched at his head, fighting to bring his thoughts into focus, but all he could grasp was that Lily wasn't within reach and something was horribly, horribly wrong. "Lily?"

"Let us worry about Lily," McGonagall said, her voice low and rough. Then she gave a snort of humorless laughter and added, "I'm sorry. That was a foolish thing to say."

At the insistence of both Pomfrey and McGonagall, he stood up and took an unsteady step toward the bed, but there was a terrible pain blossoming in the empty place inside him, expanding with every breath, robbing him of strength. One more step and it would overwhelm him. One more breath and it… Then he remembered.

" _Lily!!_ " His scream echoed through the room and brought a low sob from the nurse at his side. " _They took her! Lily!!_ "

"We'll get her back," McGonagall hissed through her teeth, as she clutched at Draco's arm. "I promise you that."

Draco tore away from both of them, then staggered when he found his legs too weak to hold him up. "They took her! They… _Harry! Harry, help me!_ "

Pomfrey and McGonagall caught him from either side as he crumpled to the floor, and the nurse pulled him swiftly into her arms. He was shaking violently, his entire body wracked by dry sobs and a convulsive shivering. He could not draw a full breath, but what air he had in his lungs he threw into another mindless, agonized cry.

"Hush," Madam Pomfrey whispered, her arms folding tightly about him to still his trembling.

" _Harry!_ " he sobbed, " _Harry! They took her!_ "

"Hush now, child. Don't cry."

" _Harry, please!_ "

"I must send word to Dumbledore," McGonagall said, tightly.

"Help me get him to bed, first."

The two women tried to lift Draco to his feet, but he was completely nerveless, shivering uncontrollably, his legs nonfunctional and his mind lost in a howling, black panic. He did not respond to their hands or their voices, only lay against Madam Pomfrey, sobbing Lily's name over and over again and breaking off occasionally to call for Harry.

"Come along, Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey urged, "you can't sit here in the cold."

"He can't hear you."

"We need Ron Weasley. He's the only one besides Potter who might be able get through to him in this state."

McGonagall gave a hiss of rage and pain. "That confounded hearing! It was nothing but a ruse to get Dumbledore and Potter out of the castle so they could do this unconscionable thing!"

"I wish to goodness Potter had been here! He'd have turned that Dolores Umbridge to smoking jelly before he let her take Lily away."

"I'll do it myself, if I ever see her face again!"

“We must get him to bed, Minerva. Mercy! He's already blue with cold. Come, now, Malfoy. Just a few steps, then you can lie still.”

Without any assistance from Draco, they hoisted him to his feet, guided him to the bed and lifted him onto it. He immediately curled up on his side, just as if he still had Lily tucked against him, and turned his face into the pillow to hide his tearless weeping from the two women bending so anxiously over him. Madam Pomfrey pulled the blankets up to his chin and cast a warming spell over them.

McGonagall frowned down at him for a moment, visibly struggling for control, then she turned for the door. "I'll send an owl to Dumbledore and tell Severus what's happened."

"Will you find Ron Weasley, while you're at it?"

"Of course."

With that, McGonagall strode out of the room, leaving Madam Pomfrey and Draco alone. Madam Pomfrey hovered about the bed, worried eyes fixed on the boy's bent head, trying to think of something that would ease his distress and failing miserably. She considered giving him a sleeping potion but decided against it. It might take the Headmaster days to get the child back, and Malfoy could not spend all that time drugged into unconsciousness. He needed to ride out the worst of it now, so he could find the strength to wait for his daughter's return.

A disturbance outside the door brought her head up with a snap. Her mouth tightened in anger, and she muttered, "What now?"

Leaving Malfoy lying very still in his bed, she strode across the room and opened the door. Then she was gone.

*** *** ***

“Are you _insane?!_ ” Harry shouted, all semblance of courtesy or control forgotten. “He did not break any of your rules, he was _kidnapped and imprisoned!_ ”

“From the Hogwarts grounds?” Fudge shot back, his fat face suffused with smug triumph. “The most secure site in all Wizarding Britain? No Death Eater could gain entrance to Hogwarts without Dumbledore knowing it, which means that Malfoy must have left the castle grounds of his own free will. How else could He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named get his hands on him? Hah! For all we know, it was Malfoy who lured the rest of those students into a trap!”

“This is utterly ridiculous. Have you talked to those other students? Did you ask them how they fell into the Death Eaters’ hands?”

“We will speak to everyone involved…”

“Before or after you throw Draco in Azkaban for getting kidnapped by Voldemort yet again?”

“You have to admit that these are fair questions, Potter,” Madam Bones interjected. “If Malfoy stayed on the castle grounds, as instructed, how did Lord Voldemort get hold of him?”

Harry took a deep breath to control his temper and answer her calmly, but Dumbledore got in before him. “I would point out, Amelia, that the Ministry never instructed Draco Malfoy to stay on the Hogwarts grounds. They put him under my care, and _I_ set the rules.”

“Did you tell him he could go into Hogsmeade?”

“I did not. I told him to stay on the grounds, which, to my certain knowledge, he did.”

“Then how did Voldemort get him?”

“The Death Eaters put several students under the Imperius Curse. One of them brought Peter Pettigrew—in his Animagus form—into the castle. Together, Pettigrew and this student captured Mr. Malfoy and took him off the grounds under an invisibility cloak.”

“Balderdash!” Fudge exclaimed.

“In what respect, Cornelius?” Dumbledore asked, his voice dangerously silky.

“All this rubbish about Animagi and invisibility cloaks…”

“You have Peter Pettigrew in custody at this moment and, if I’m not mistaken, you confiscated an invisibility cloak from him upon his arrest. A cloak belonging to Harry Potter.”

“I… well…” Fudge spluttered, while Kingsley smiled to himself.

It was Scrimgeour who answered in his deep, slow voice. “We have Pettigrew and the cloak, though the Minister did not inform us that it belonged to Potter. We do not know anything about Pettigrew being an Animagus.”

“Ask Sirius Black. Or better yet, Ronald Weasley. He unknowingly kept Pettigrew as a pet for years.”

“What form does he take?” Madam Bones asked.

“A large, grey rat.” Dumbledore twinkled at her. “Easy to carry in the pocket of a robe. That’s how the Cursed student got him through the wards.”

“What student?” Fudge demanded.

“Does it matter?” Dumbledore replied, calmly.

“Of course it matters! We need to question this student and verify your story!”

Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment, then said, “I think not.”

Fudge’s face darkened in fury, and he began to splutter again, but Dumbledore simply turned away to address the others around the table.

“Unlike our esteemed Minister for Magic, I _have_ spoken to the kidnapped students. All of them. And all their accounts agree in essentials. They were split up when they reached the prison, kept in separate cells, and had no contact with each other. As a result, they have few details about what happened on the island. But they were all awake and together when Pettigrew brought Draco to Bellatrix Lestrange—stunned and hidden under the invisibility cloak—and they all give the same version of events. There can be no doubt whatsoever that Mr. Malfoy was captured and brought out of Hogwarts against his will.”

He swept his piercing gaze around the table, meeting the eyes of those who dared to face him and passing over those who did not with a subtle contempt in his bland manner. “I fully understand Mr. Potter’s anxiety to have you speak with the other students. He wants Draco’s situation resolved as quickly as possible. But I will not subject those students to further abuse, after what they have endured. You have all the surviving Death Eaters in custody and may question them as you please, but you will leave my students out of this.”

“ _Your_ students…!” Fudge began, only to have Dumbledore cut him off with a raised hand.

“I won’t have this argument with you again, Cornelius. I am sworn to protect those children, including Draco Malfoy. Perhaps _especially_ Draco Malfoy, since he is my ward as well as my student. I will take whatever steps I think necessary to keep my word and to keep them safe. I don’t know where you all got this ridiculous idea that Draco ran away from Hogwarts…”

Several heads swiveled to look pointedly at Fudge. The Minister turned an even more violent shade of red. “Draco Malfoy is mentally unhinged and a danger to others!” he snapped.

“He is nothing of the kind,” Dumbledore replied, wearily. “He is a remarkable young man who has suffered more at Voldemort’s hands than any of us and survived what few of us could.”

The others shifted uncomfortably, while the healer perked up and started to look interested.

“We know all about what he’s survived,” Fudge said, nastily.

Dumbledore’s brows rose. “Do you? Ah, well, I suppose it was too much to hope that the secret would stay secret. Been talking the the Death Eaters, have you?” He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward, bringing his formidable presence closer to the witches and wizards seated around him. “If you know what happened to Draco in Azkaban, then you must know that he’s in no condition to be removed from the Hogwarts hospital wing, much less thrown back into prison.”

“There are other ways to restrain him,” Fudge snapped. “The Closed Ward has the facilities for keeping dangerous lunatics…”

“Lunatics!” Harry blurted out, letting slip the leash on his temper once more. “Didn’t Dumbledore just tell you that he’s not crazy?!”

“I think the experts at St. Mungo’s,” he waved in the direction of the healer, “are better qualified than you to make that determination, Mr. Potter.”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore said with a knowing smile, “as it happens, the head of the Spell Damage Ward is currently at Hogwarts, treating Mr. Malfoy’s injuries. She would be more than happy to give you an assessment of his condition.”

“I think we can rely on this gentleman for any opinion we need.”

“Can you?” Dumbledore turned a guileless gaze on the frowning healer. “This gentleman who—correct me if I’m wrong—has never met Draco Malfoy, much less treated him? He is better qualified than the healer who made the initial diagnosis of Spell-Shock, performed the delicate spell that eventually cured him, and is with him now on a daily basis? And, may I add, who has known him all his life, so would be uniquely qualified to tell us whether he is, er, _himself_?”

Kingsley spoke up for the first time. “Iphigenia Fox is at Hogwarts with him?”

Dumbledore nodded. “She is.”

Kingsley looked pleased at that. “He’s in the best hands, then. I don’t mind telling you, I was concerned when I heard about the Fecundus Charm. I just assumed he wouldn’t pull through.”

“We all did, but thanks to Madam Fox, to Harry, here, and even to Lord Voldemort, it looks as though he’s out of the woods.”

“Excellent news.” Kingsley grinned, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “Another one for the history books.”

“Is he really going to survive the birth of a child?” Madam Bones demanded, her broad, rather hard face suffused with surprise. “I didn’t think that was even possible!”

“I’m sure Cornelius had his suspicions,” Dumbledore said, with utmost innocence, “or else why hold this hearing?” His eyes slid over to the Minister, whose face was now deep purple. “No need to punish a dying man, after all.”

“And the child?”

Before Dumbledore or Harry could answer this, Fudge was on his feet, blustering, “Very well, then, Albus. We’ll wait for Madam Fox’s report to discuss punishment…”

“Don’t you mean, to discuss releasing him from my guardianship?”

“Humph!”

“If Iphigenia Fox agrees that the Malfoy boy is in his right mind, I see no reason to keep him under your care,” Madam Bones cut in. “He’s seventeen now and should be accorded full rights as a member of the wizarding community.”

“There’s still the matter of the boy leaving Hogwarts,” Fudge snapped.

“Have I not said that I don’t hold him responsible for that?” Dumbledore replied. “And have we not determined that I am the only one in a position to make such restrictions or to punish him for violating them? Come, now, Cornelius, enough is enough. Draco has done nothing wrong.”

“We’ll see about that,” Fudge growled. “This hearing is adjourned. Send me Madam Fox’s report. And written statements from those students, just for our files!” he hurried to add.

Harry didn’t wait for more. He jumped to his feet, smiled a farewell to Kingsley and nodded furtively at Percy, then almost ran out the door.

*** *** ***

Draco hesitated at the turn in the dungeon passage, uncertain which way to go. He had no clear goal in mind, other than finding Harry, so he had not bothered to keep track of the stairways and hallways he used, but had simply wandered about the castle in a fog of mindless pain. The farther he walked, the more his body hurt and the louder the weeping and screaming in his ears became, until the torment inside him completely blocked out the world. Still he walked, and still he searched, but some part of him knew that it was meaningless. Lily was gone. Harry was gone. His life was gone—turned to shrieking blackness and howling despair.

He moved slowly around the corner, leaning on the wall for support, and started down yet another passageway. He heard voices ahead, but none of them penetrated his shell of misery. His feet carried him inexorably closer to them, while his mind ignored them completely.

Suddenly, the voices broke off their chatter, and one called out, loudly, "Look here! It's Potter's Plaything!"

Draco stopped walking, not because he was afraid, but because he sensed a body directly in front of him and didn't know how to get around it. He lifted his head to stare dumbly at the person blocking his path.

"Don't you mean Potter's Bitch?" another voice retorted. A burst of sour laughter met this sally. "I hear she's had a litter of puppies! Little, green-eyed Potter Puppies!"

“Get out of my way,” Draco said, quietly.

The presence in front of him loomed even closer. "What did you say, little bitch?"

"I need to find Harry. Get out of my way.”

"You _need_ Potter, do you?” the hulk in front of him taunted. “What's the matter, Malfoy? Is your bed too cold? Is your arse too empty? What happened to your big, strong, Gryffindor hero, anyway?”

More laughter echoed around Draco, disorienting him in the pain-shot darkness and spurring his tormentor to new heights of nastiness.

“Decided he liked girls, after all, did he? Had enough Slytherin arse and moved on to that Granger slag?” That got the biggest laugh yet. In an aside to his mates, the speaker remarked, “I’m not sure which is worse—buggery or banging Mudbloods.”

Draco just stared at him with his blank, emotionless eyes, then moved, trying to step around him.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” the larger boy snarled, flinging out an arm to block his progress. He caught Draco across the chest and, not realizing how fragile the smaller boy was in his current state, hurled him back against the wall.

“Hey!” a new, more sympathetic voice called sharply, “watch it, Gumboil!”

As Draco slammed into the wall, pain exploded in his body. He gasped and sagged, slipping down the wall, bent double with his right arm pressed to his midriff and the adamant hand scrabbling at the stone to halt his fall. A hand fastened in his collar and dragged him upright.

Gumboil’s voice hissed from close range, “Don’t play that game with me, Malfoy! I know all your tricks.”

Instead of answering him, Draco choked and began to retch. Something hot and foul that tasted of blood rose into his mouth. The boys gathered around him shouted in alarm.

“Bloody Hell!” Gumboil swore, letting go of Draco and jumping back.

“What did you do to him?” the sympathetic voice demanded.

“Nothing!” Gumboil protested.

The owner of the sympathetic voice pushed past Gumboil and caught Draco by the arm to support him. “What’s wrong, Malfoy?” he asked, his voice rough but not unkind. “What can I do?”

The spasms continued to wrack Draco, forcing grunts of pain from him as they twisted in his abused innards, and blood bubbled from between his lips. His legs could no longer support his weight. He sank to the floor, dragging his would-be rescuer with him.

“Harry,” he managed to choke out, “find Harry…”

“Potter wouldn’t be down here.”

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

The newest voice came from down the passage, a furious bellow that silenced the muttering of the Slytherins. Draco knew that voice, but he could not collect himself enough to respond to it. He collapsed in a heap on the floor, still retching, his entire body afire with pain. Above him, though he could not see it and could only guess at what was happening, Vincent Crabbe stood, confronting a group of five of his housemates, with his wand in his hand and an expression of cold fury on his face.

“Get away from him! Go on, Baddock, get away.”

Malcolm Baddock, who was kneeling beside Draco, staring down at him in concern, scrambled away and got to his feet. “He’s coughing up blood! He asked for Potter, then he…”

“If you bastards touched him,” Crabbe snarled, cutting him off, “I’ll fix the lot of you!”

“Gumboil gave him a shove, that’s all.”

“It’s not my fault he’s a bleedin’ nancy who can’t…”

“Shut your filthy gob!” Crabbe growled. He dropped to one knee beside Malfoy and caught his head between his enormous hands. Turning and lifting the smaller boy until he could look into his face, he said, with clumsy gentleness, “Malfoy? Can you hear me?”

Draco groaned softly and took a ragged, sobbing breath. “Vincent.”

“Yeah. What happened? What’re you doing outside the hospital wing?”

"Harry… h-have to find… Harry…"

"Not now, you don't," Crabbe said, gruffly.

"They took her. They…took Lily _._ ”

Crabbe frowned at that but didn't wait to find out what he was talking about. As gently as he could manage, he got an arm around Draco’s ribcage and heaved him to his feet. Draco staggered, clutched at his massive shoulder, and started to crumple again.

“No, you don’t. On your feet, mate.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Baddock asked, as he hovered around Crabbe, clearly wanting to help but not knowing how or what would be accepted.

“What d’you think is bleeding wrong with him?” Crabbe snapped. “He’s had a bleeding baby, hasn’t he?”

He swung Malfoy up in his arms, earning him another grunt of pain, and murmured, “Don’t worry, Malfoy. I’ll get you back to Madam Pomfrey, then I’ll find Potter for you.”

“Harry,” Draco mumbled, his head falling limply back and his eyes drifting closed, as he slid into unconsciousness.

“Yeah.” His expression grim and his eyes suspiciously bright, he added to himself, “Then I’ll break the blighter’s legs so he has to stay put.”

Crabbe started down the hallway with the other Slytherins trailing behind him in a sullen clump. Before they had reached the first turning, they were halted by the abrupt entrance of Professor McGonagall. She came hurrying around the corner, hat askew, face distracted, muttering to herself in a frantic way, and when she saw Crabbe, she uttered a cry of relief.

"Malfoy! Thank heavens you've found him!" She swooped down on the two boys, reaching to lift Malfoy's head and peer into his face. "I've been looking all over the castle, but I was afraid he'd gotten outside somehow. Poppy should never have left him alone… He’s bleeding! Has he been fighting?” Her gimlet eye fixed on the nearest Slytherin, Malcolm Baddock.

“No, Professor. It was just a misunderstanding.”

McGonagall gave a dissatisfied grunt and spun around, stalking off down the dungeon passage the way she’d come. “Smartly, now, Crabbe! We need to get him back to the hospital wing.”

Vincent hurried off in her wake, still carrying Malfoy easily in his massive arms. ”What’s happened, Professor?” he asked, as he caught her up.

McGonagall’s lips thinned and she said, her voice harsh with anger, “The Ministry of Magic has taken Lily away."

“ _What?!_ "

"Did you say they've taken the baby?” Baddock demanded, quickening his pace to move up beside her. “But they can't! She's Malfoy's daughter!"

"We'll straighten it all out when the Headmaster returns. He won't allow them to separate Lily from her parents."

"That's what he was doing down here," Baddock said anxiously, “looking for his daughter.”

"Did he say anything to you?" McGonagall asked.

Gumboil answered in his usual surly tone. “He didn’t say anything about a baby. He wanted Potter. ”

She glared fiercely at the Slytherin for a moment, as if she knew exactly how he had responded to Malfoy's concern for his Gryffindor lover and exactly how the unconscious boy had ended up in this condition. "If you've seriously hurt him, there will be consequences, Mr. Gumboil.”

Gumboil grumbled something sour under his breath, and the other Slytherins drew almost imperceptibly away from him. They reached the hospital wing. McGonagall pushed the doors open for Crabbe.

“Get him into his room. Madam Pomfrey will be right with you. The rest of you go on back to your common room. You can’t help Malfoy now. Gumboil, I’ll see you in my office in half an hour.”

“Yes, Professor,” he grunted, then he shuffled off.

McGonagall nodded curtly to the remaining Slytherins and stepped through the doors. They watched her go, then looked at each other, all wearing the same half-shocked, half-worried expressions. Finally, they settled down against the wall to wait. None of them followed Gumboil back to the dungeons.

*** *** ***

Dumbledore gave Harry a weary, hopeful smile and stepped out of the lift. As they moved into the Atrium, they were suddenly engulfed in a storm of owls—wings batted them about the head, beaks snapped at their faces, and the guard yelled furiously in their ears.

Harry took a swipe at the nearest flying body, only to discover that it was Hedwig, and that she was trying to land on his shoulder. He made a snatch for her, caught her in mid-air, and took the letter from her beak. She gave him a rather hard nip on the ear, then launched herself for the open skylight above and freedom. Harry ducked to avoid a pair of competing barn owls as he tore open the letter.

It was from Ron, and it was written so badly that he stared at it for nearly a full minute before the words began to make sense.

 

_Harry,_

_They took Iffy. I'm sorry; I would have stopped it if I could, but I wasn't there. They knew you and Dumbledore would be gone, so they forced their way into the hospital wing and took her. Even McGonagall and Pomfrey couldn't stop them. Draco tried to hex Umbridge, but they hit him with a stunning spell before he could manage it, then they snatched the baby right out of his arms._

_Come home NOW. Malfoy has completely lost his mind, not that I blame him, and he needs you. I’m doing my best, but he seems to think that you can bring Iffy home, and he won't talk to anyone else. I know you. I know you want to go tearing off to find her, but you_ can't _Harry! You've got to come home and help Malfoy! Let Dumbledore find her—he’ll be able to talk Fudge and that foul Umbridge around better than you can. You get your heroic arse back here, before something even more awful happens!_

_Ron._

 

Harry lifted his eyes from the letter, feeling as though someone had just hit him in the chest with a killing curse, and looked for Dumbledore. The Headmaster was fending off a pair of screeching witches whose hats had been snatched off their heads by grabbing claws, waving a couple of owls away from his own head, and reading a letter at the same time. As Harry's eyes touched him, he glanced up and met his gaze.

“This is what Fudge meant by ‘we’ll see’,” Harry said, numbly.

"We must hurry." Dumbledore stuffed the letter, along with half a dozen others, into his pocket and nodded toward the bank of fireplaces on the wall. “Back to Hogwarts at once."

Harry swallowed, painfully, and nodded. He had no idea what expression he wore, but something about the way Dumbledore looked at him told him that it wasn't pretty. No feeling had hit him yet—no anger, no fear, nothing—he was simply frozen with shock. Dumbledore took his arm, gazing worriedly at him, to lead him toward the nearest empty fireplace. The storm of owls followed them over to the wall.

Dumbledore was reaching for a pot of floo powder, when a shout from down the room halted him.

"Dumbledore! Wait!"

Harry turned to see Professor Snape running toward them. He slid to a stop in front of Dumbledore, panting, then he shot the owls an irritated look. "You heard," he said, tightly.

"From several sources. What is the situation at Hogwarts?"

"The students don't know anything, except for a small group of Slytherins who are keeping it to themselves. McGonagall has called in several members of the Order and stationed them about the castle. She's closed the floo network, except to your office, and posted a guard there in case Umbridge comes back for Malfoy. And she's authorized the guards to use whatever force is necessary to keep Ministry wizards out of Hogwarts."

"She feels Draco is in danger?"

"Umbridge apparently said that she would be back for Malfoy, after the hearing. She seemed to think it would end with the committee demanding his arrest."

"She was mistaken."

"That's something, anyway."

"And Mr. Malfoy?"

Snape shot Harry a measuring look. "He's in a bad way. He wants Potter—seems convinced that he's the only one who can bring the child back—and he's already wandered off in search of him once. Now Pomfrey has him locked in the Room of Requirement, with Ron Weasley to keep an eye on him."

"Is he rational?" Dumbledore asked.

Snape paused, then shook his head. "You need to get back there, Potter. Now."

Harry nodded, dumbly.

"I think it best if I remain here," Dumbledore said. "If Minerva has things well in hand at Hogwarts, my time can be best spent at the Ministry. Severus, will you please escort Harry back?"

Snape didn't look too pleased with this request, but he grunted his acceptance and motioned for Harry to approach the nearest fireplace. "Ask for Hogwarts," he growled, as he handed Harry the pot of floo powder. "That will take you to the Headmaster's office. Remus Lupin should be there."

"Are you coming?" Harry asked, suddenly very anxious to have the dour Potions Master there to protect Draco.

"In a moment. Go on."

Harry obediently took a handful of the powder, tossed it into the fire, and stepped into the green flames. "Hogwarts!"

The world spun crazily about him, his nose and mouth filled with soot, his glasses slipped nearly off his face, and then he found himself staggering out of the fireplace in Professor Dumbledore's tower room. A strong hand closed on his arm, steadying him, and he looked up into a familiar, careworn face.

"Hello, Harry.

"Hallo, Remus." Harry did not stop to chat or adjust his windblown robes. Giving Lupin one abstracted smile, he started for the door at a run. The spiral staircase did not move fast enough for him, so he bounded down the moving steps, and then had to stand, fuming, at the bottom until it came to a gentle halt. Then he was off, tearing through the hallways, oblivious to the students who stared or shouted.

A group of Slytherins were standing outside the hospital wing, their wands in their hands. Harry felt a moment of panic, sure that he was going to have to hex them all to get through, but the biggest of the boys, Malcolm Baddock, only lifted his hand in something that might have been a salute or a wave and swung the door open for him. Harry gave him a startled look and a half wave, then bolted past him onto the ward.

Madam Pomfrey looked up at his explosive entrance. "Potter!"

"Is he all right, Madam Pomfrey?"

"No, but he's resting quietly enough, thanks to a strong sleeping potion. Ron Weasley is with him."

"Were you here when they… when they took Lily?"

She nodded soberly, and the kindness in her eyes made Harry's sting with sudden tears.

"Did they hurt her?"

"No. She was fit to be tied when they took her away from Malfoy, started screaming, but it was only anger. No pain." Her hand went out to him, then fell to her side again, helplessly. "They wouldn't dare harm that child, Potter. Even Fudge knows better than that."

"But they took her away from Draco, from her _mother_ , and she's only a few days old! Won't that hurt her?"

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "It will most likely hurt Malfoy a good deal more than it will the baby. And you. How are you holding up?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "I guess I'm in shock. I can't feel anything."

"That won't last," she said, grimly. "You go on in and look after your young man. He needs you."

Harry nodded and started for the inner door.

"And Potter!" she called after him. He stopped and turned to look a question at her. "Send Weasley out here if you want some privacy. No one will bother you. Just call if you need anything."

He nodded again and pushed through the door, muttering his password as his hand closed on the latch.

Inside the room, everything was just as he remembered it. The bed, the crimson curtains, the baby paraphernalia scattered about, Draco lying beneath a heap of blankets… except that the peace and warmth of it were shattered. Ron sat beside the bed, his face pale and twisted with distress. Draco lay, not curled up comfortably with his infant daughter, but huddled in a broken heap, his face hidden in the pillow, the blankets pulled up around him like a shield. And Lily was gone.

Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, Harry tiptoed across the room. Ron looked up, then bounded to his feet. 

“Glad to see you, mate!” he whispered.

Harry tried to smile a welcome, but it slipped badly awry, "How's Draco?"

Ron’s expression grew, if possible, even more bleak. “I could kill that evil toad Umbridge. Even in Azkaban, with You-Know-Who torturing him, Ferret wasn’t like this. If they really take Iffy away from him…”

Harry clutched his arm in fierce fingers and said, “They won’t. Dumbledore won’t let them.” Then, twitching his head at the door, he murmured, “Go on and get some rest. I’ll stay with him.

Ron started for the door, then halted, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other and casting woeful glances at the bed. “Tell him… tell him all he has to do is shout, and I’m here. Whatever he needs.” Harry nodded. “And you won’t leave, will you? You’ll stay with him till he has Iffy back?”

“I’ll stay.”

Ron gave a jerky nod and headed for the door, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders slumped in misery. Harry watched him slip out the door and close it behind him, then he turned to his love. Dropping to a crouch beside the bed, he reached up to stroke the bright hair back from Draco's forehead. The other boy did not move. His eyes did not open.

"Dragon? It's me. I'm home."

Pale lashes slowly lifted to reveal eyes overflowing with agony. Draco stared straight at him, giving Harry ample opportunity to read the depth of suffering in that blank gaze, then his eyes fell closed again and he grunted softly in pain.

"Please, Dragon, let me help you," Harry urged. His fingers brushed Draco's thin, shadowed cheek, noting the fresh lines of pain cut around his mouth. "Talk to me."

Draco pulled in a ragged breath and spoke without opening his eyes, his voice a pale, pain-edged whisper. "They took her."

"I know. I know."

A fit of violent shivering gripped him, and he grunted again, as if he were trying not to cry out. Harry rose onto his knees and slipped an arm about his shoulders to let him feel his warmth.

"I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t find you.”

"I'm here now, Dragon, and I won't leave you alone until we get Lily back, I swear."

Draco reached toward his voice and grabbed hold of his robe, clinging to him with surprising strength, trying to use him as leverage to pull himself upright. "Find her, Harry! _You have to find her!_ "

Harry pulled the other boy's fragile, terribly weakened body into his arms, as Draco fell against him, sobbing with fury and pain. "Dumbledore will find her," Harry murmured. "He won't let anything happen to her. Oh, please don’t, Draco! Please!”

But Draco could not hear him. He could not seem to make up his mind whether he wanted to hide in Harry's embrace and cry until the force of his sobs tore him apart, or spring from the bed and go in search of Lily himself. Harry's soothing words did nothing calm him, but from the clutch of his hands, Harry could tell that Draco wanted him close.

"Lie down," Harry urged. "You need to rest."

Breaking Draco's hold on him as gently as he could, Harry kicked off his shoes and pulled his robe off over his head. Then he skirted around the bed to climb onto the mattress behind the other boy, while Draco crumpled forward to bury his face in the pillow once more. Harry slid beneath the blankets and curved his body protectively around Draco’s, then he gathered the other boy up in his arms.

"That's it. I've got you,” he murmured softly.

“Harry," Draco whispered.

"Yes, love. I'm right here."

"She's gone."

"I know, but we'll get her back.”

“What if we don’t? What if they…”

“They won’t. She’s our miracle baby—a miracle for the whole wizarding world, once they learn about her. No one would dare hurt her.”

“I don’t want a miracle. I want my Lily back. I can’t breathe without her.”

“I know.” Harry shut his eyes against a rush of tears and tightened his hold on Draco.

Draco began to weep in dry, painful sobs, and Harry cried with him. Together, they curled up into a tight, desperate ball of pain and wept until exhaustion dragged them both into unconsciousness.

**_To be continued…_ **


	13. The Last Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore confronts the Wizengamot and lays it on the line. Ron finally gets to be the hero.

****Ron blinked at Snape in confusion. “You want me?”

“No. I want a dozen scones and a pot of strawberry jam. Of course I want you, Weasley! Get moving!”

He scrambled up off the bench, leaving the other Gryffindors staring after him in bemusement, and followed Snape out of the Great Hall. As they headed up the main stairs, he ventured another question. “Er, _why_ do you want me, Professor?”

“Dumbledore has sent word that he needs you at the Ministry.” Ron came to an abrupt halt, his mouth hanging open, and Snape stopped with him. Fixing the Gryffindor with a sour look, he added, “Best wipe that imbecilic expression off your face, if you can, or you’ll do more damage than good.”

Snape continued on his way toward the next flight of stairs, and Ron scrambled to catch him up.

“I’d send you up to your dormitory for a halfway decent robe and a pair of clean shoes, but as I suspect you have neither, and the Headmaster specifically requested that you hurry, I’ll have to rely on him to whip you into shape.”

They proceeded up to the seventh floor and down the hallway to the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore’s tower room.

“ _Nosebleed Nougat_ ,” Snape growled at the statue.

It leapt to one side, leaving them room to enter the tall, narrow stairway. As the gargoyle jumped back into place, the stairs began to move, and Ron made a futile effort to wipe the stains from the front of his robe. He was working on his hair, combing it with his fingers, when they reached the door to the office. Snape knocked, and the door flew open to reveal Professor Moody.

“Don’t stand there gawping, Weasley, get in.”

As this was Moody’s standard greeting and had no relation to what the person in question was actually doing, Ron didn’t bother to wonder what he was supposedly gawping at but simply stepped into the room. He saw Remus Lupin and Sirius Black lurking by the fireplace, and a familiar tall, graceful figure in a black hood and cloak waiting well back from them. Dumbledore was not there.

Moody shut the door on Snape and clumped over to the fireplace. “All right, Weasley, you go first. I’ll be right behind you. You two,” he glared meaningfully at Sirius and Remus, “send her after me. I’ll be waiting at the other end.”

Ron had never used the floo network to get to the Ministry of Magic, and he was distinctly nervous as he stepped into the green flames. It was a long, buffeting trip, but he arrived in the Atrium without incident and managed to step out of the great fireplace with a modicum of dignity. He only sneezed twice from the soot getting up his nose.

Moody appeared a few seconds later. He drew his wand the moment he’d stepped out of the flames. “Stand back.”

“She won’t try anything here, will she?”

“Who knows what a Black-Malfoy will do when she’s cornered?”

“She put herself in this corner,” Ron pointed out reasonably, but Moody was watching Narcissa spin into view and ignored him.

When he had pulled Narcissa Malfoy roughly from the fireplace, Moody stumped off toward the lifts without another glance at Ron. They made a ragged procession: Moody with his wand drawn and his hand clamped on Narcissa’s arm, his wooden leg clunking loudly against the floor and his magical eye swiveling madly about; Narcissa in her long cloak and deep hood, managing to look like visiting royalty even when clearly a prisoner; and Ron with his smudged face, stained second-hand robe, and scuffed trainers.

The guard at the gates recognized Ron as a Weasley and nodded a greeting. “Which one’re you?” he asked, as he registered Ron’s wand.

“Ron. How are you, Mr. Munch?”

Munch just grunted and shoved the wand back at him. When he held out his hand to Narcissa, Moody growled, “She’s got no wand. We’re in a hurry, if you don’t mind.”

Munch grunted again and waved them through. “Wizengamot Special Session? Courtroom Ten.”

Ron felt his stomach drop into his socks at those words. He’d never seen Courtroom Ten, the Wizengamot dungeon, but he’d heard enough stories from Harry and his father that he had a pretty good idea what to expect. Stepping into the lift beside Moody, he bent close to the Auror and whispered, “Is Malfoy on trial again?”

Moody grinned, making his scarred face look more frightening that ever. “That’s what Fudge thinks, but it’s Dumbledore who’s called this session and Dumbledore who’s in control of it. You’re here to tell the Wizengamot the truth about what the Dark Lord did to Malfoy. You and his mother, here, are the only ones who know it all and who’re likely to tell the truth.”

The lift creaked and groaned and shuddered its way down to the lower level, almost drowning out Moody’s words.

“Don’t let the dungeon worry you. Or Fudge. You’ve got the truth on your side, _and_ Albus Dumbledore, and that’s all you need. Hear me, boy?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good enough. Here we are.” The lift gate opened on a dark, oppressive hallway that Ron recognized as the entry to the Department of Mysteries. “Down the steps to the door at the bottom.”

Ron obediently turned away from the ominous corridor and started down a long, straight, narrow flight of stone steps. Torches lit the way, and though the passage was chilly, there was no hint of dementor-cold about it, which reassured him. They weren’t planning to arrest anyone. Then he remembered that the dementors themselves were imprisoned by Sirius and Lupin, which cheered him immensely. He approached the great, heavy, louring doorwith something approaching confidence.

Moody reached past him and grasped the iron ring to pull the door open. It groaned like a suffering soul, but it moved. Ron stepped through it into the dungeon.

It looked exactly as Harry had described it—a tall, narrow chamber with wooden benches rising up on three sides above the deep, stone well of the floor. A roughhewn chair stood at the center of the floor, chains lying across its arms, waiting for some unfortunate wizard to venture too close. The center benches, immediately behind the high seat where the Minister sat, were filled with witches and wizards in purple robes. Behind and to either side of them, a scattering of other people sat, those few who were not members of the Wizengamot who had caught wind of the unusual emergency session. They were all chattering, speculating, laughing amongst themselves, telling Ron that they had no idea what this was about. Anything to do with Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy would have been taken more seriously, he suspected, had they caught wind of it.

Fudge was in his chair, with Percy on one side, looking uncomfortable, and Dolores Umbridge on the other. Dumbledore sat on that first bench, as well, but with several empty places between him and Percy. He looked relaxed but unusually serious, and he didn’t smile when he bent to speak to Madam Fox in the seat beside him. The healer looked positively grim.

Ron edge along the side wall of the central well, trying to get close to Dumbledore and attract his attention, but he needn’t have bothered. Moody stumped right out into the middle of the floor, just in front of the cruel chair, and bellowed, “All present and accounted for, Dumbledore!”

“Thank you, Alastor.” Dumbledore rose to his feet, causing the noise from the tiers above to die down. “Would you care to join us up here?”

“I’m comfortable where I am,” Moody growled, his magical eye fixed on Fudge.

“Excellent. Then I believe we’re ready to begin.”

“Wait just a moment, Dumbledore,” Fudge cut in, pompously. “I’m the Minister for Magic and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, so I’ll say when it’s time to call this session to order!”

“On the contrary,” Dumbledore said, his voice suddenly arctic, “I convened this emergency session of the Wizengamot and I will conduct it.”

A startled buzzing broke out among the audience, while Umbridge pursed her lips in distaste and Fudge surged to his feet to confront Dumbledore.

“You!” Clearly, Fudge had responded to the summons without knowing its source. “ _You_ summoned us? I would remind you, Dumbledore, that you’re no longer Chief Warlock and therefore in no position…”

Dumbledore cut him off ruthlessly. “I am a member of the Wizengamot in good standing and entitled to call an emergency session, when I deem it necessary. If you ever bothered to read the Charter of this body you are so proud to head, you would know this.”

“He’s right, Cornelius,” Madam Bones growled, “so sit down and be quiet. Go on, then, Albus, tell us why we’re here. It’s not that same business as this morning, is it?”

“I’m afraid so.” Lifting his eyes to scan the benches above him, Dumbledore pitched his voice to carry to the very top tier and said, “I have called this extraordinary session of the Wizengamot to accuse Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, of extreme malfeasance, abuse of power, violating the rights of a member of the wizarding community, judicial crimes, and conspiracy to kidnapping. We may add child endangerment to the list, depending on what we learn today.”

The dungeon exploded. Dumbledore stood still and tall, letting the furor wash over him, then turned and vaulted lightly over the barrier to land on the stone floor. He crossed to where Moody stood and clasped his shoulder, sending him back into the shadows, out of sight. Then he took Moody’s spot in the center of the floor, at the center of the storm.

Madam Bones finally stemmed the tide of noise by rising to her feet and shouting, “Let him speak! Let Dumbledore speak!” When she could make herself heard without straining, she turned to Dumbledore and called, “Those are serious allegations, Albus. What has he done?”

Dumbledore did not have to raise his voice. It easily filled the chamber, and everyone fell instantly quiet to hear him. “This morning, while we were attending his kangaroo court, he sent Dolores Umbridge to Hogwarts to kidnap an infant.”

The furor rose again, but Madam Bones halted it before it could get out of control. “Malfoy’s child?”

“Yes. Without orders from this body, without evidence of any wrongdoing on Mr. Malfoy’s part or any possible reason for separating that child from her parent, Umbridge had her henchmen physically attack an injured student, wrest his child from him by force, stun him, and take the child out of the castle. We have no idea where the child is and no idea if she’s being properly cared for…”

“Of course she is!” Fudge snapped. “What do you take me for?!”

“A liar and a kidnapper,” Dumbledore retorted, his voice so cold it nearly cracked the stones beneath his feet. “You have hated Draco Malfoy since the day he first touched Harry Potter, and you have used every means at your disposal to torment, humiliate and degrade him. You have tried to have him imprisoned in Azkaban and shut up on the Closed Ward in St. Mungo’s. You have taken his freedom, his family estate and his right to call himself a wizard. You have treated him shamefully, simply because he and Harry would not dance to your tune. But this is beneath even you, Cornelius.”

“I am protecting the wizarding world, as is my duty!” Fudge cried, furiously.

“From a two-day-old infant?”

“ _From Lord Voldemort’s child!_ ”

That really did it. Ron thought the eruption of sound would blow the ceiling off the chamber. Half of the Wizengamot were on their feet, waving their arms about like lunatics, as they shouted at each other and at the figures below who could not possibly hear them through the din. It would have been funny, if it weren’t so appalling. These idiots actually believed that Malfoy had given birth to Voldemort’s child! Worse, they actually believed something coming out of Fudge’s mouth! It was beyond Ron’s comprehension that people this stupid could breathe without someone to show them how.

Once again, Dumbledore let the insanity roll over him, until another wizard decided it was time to silence it. Kingsley Shacklebolt, seated a row or two above Fudge, rose to his feet and touched his wand to his throat to amplify his voice.

“Enough!” he called, his voice filling the chamber nearly to the bursting point and quelling the riot above him. “We will never resolve this, if we cannot hear the evidence!”

The voices died a bit more, and Fudge took heart. Getting to his feet, he struck an authoritative pose and said, loudly, “We all know that Draco Malfoy’s sanity is in question. We all know that he’s capable of murder, at the very least, because we all witnessed him kill his own father just a few months ago. We all know the history of his family and the loyalty they showed You-Know-Who to the bitter end.”

He gestured grandly toward Dumbledore, his voice growing in volume as he gained confidence in his own oratory. “Then we are told that this Malfoy boy—this scion of a pureblood house, known to dabble in the Dark Arts, seen to support the Dark Lord at every turn—has born a child, an _illegal child_ , through the magic of our greatest enemy! Dumbledore reminds us that this infant is only two days old. He plucks at our heartstrings with tales of ruffians snatching the screaming infant from Malfoy’s arms, as they stun the helpless boy. But he fails to mention that Draco Malfoy is _insane_ , that he fled Hogwarts and went willingly into the Dark Lord’s arms, where he allowed that very Lord, his true master, to use forbidden magic on him and conceive an illegal child in his body! He fails to mention that the only possible fathers of that child are You-Know-Who’s servants or You-Know-Who himself! He carefully conceals the truth that Draco Malfoy used Harry Potter to gain acceptance in our world, used the Dark Lord to get himself a child, and is now using us to protect that child and ensure that his evil lover’s legacy will continue in his daughter!”

Ron thought he might be sick. He stared at Fudge’s smug face and pictured himself smashing a Bludger into it.

“Yes, I sent Dolores Umbridge to secure the child, but she took two healers from St. Mungo’s with her, not violent ruffians. Yes, I took the child from Draco Malfoy, because he is not in any condition to care for himself, much less a child, and because I could not leave You-Know-Who’s offspring in the hands of his most… devious servant.” His lip curled in profound disgust. “I consider that I did my duty, no more, no less. If you don’t agree, then point out to me where I’ve failed you, and I’ll correct it.”

He plumped down in his chair, radiating wounded dignity, and this time, not a sound came from the tiers of watching wizards.

Dumbledore stared at Fudge for a long, cold minute, then said, his voice heavy with contempt, “How did you concoct that ridiculous story, Cornelius? Are you so blinded by envy and thwarted ambition that you actually believe it? We all know that Draco Malfoy is not insane, he is not a Death Eater, and he did not prostitute himself to Voldemort to get an _illegal child_. His only lover is Harry Potter. And that’s what rankles with you so unbearably, isn’t it? That Harry loves Draco and feels no shame in proclaiming it to your face. That’s a kind of courage and loyalty you will never understand.”

“We’ve heard more than enough about Potter’s sordid love life in this chamber, Dumbledore.”

“Indeed. But let me say this again, so that we are perfectly clear on it. Draco Malfoy’s only lover is Harry Potter. Not Voldemort, not one of his Death Eaters, just Harry. Harry is his lover, his partner, and the father of his child.”

A buzz of sound met this announcement, but it died quickly of its own accord. This was far too juicy a bit of gossip to be missed, and it was a rare day that Albus Dumbledore spoke so openly of the goings on at his school, especially where Potter was concerned.

“But I put it to you that it does not matter who fathered the child. She is Draco’s, and she belongs with him. That is the matter in a nutshell.”

“He broke the law! He is a criminal, hiding out at Hogwarts—hiding behind _your robes_ —to escape punishment!”

“So, now it is against the law to be the target of illegal magic? Tell me, Cornelius, If I attacked you with an Unforgivable Curse, would you expect this body to place you under arrest for _allowing_ me to do it? I think not. I think you would scream persecution and abuse of power, if they tried.”

“He bore the child!” Fudge almost shrieked, his face taking on a purplish hue. “He colluded in the crime!”

“He was bound to a tabletop, magically restrained, without a wand or even his hand with which to defend himself. Under the same circumstances, how would you free yourself? How would you stop the Dark Lord from impregnating you?”

Fudge looked as if he were about to burst from the pressure of his outrage, but he was saved from countering Dumbledore’s attack by Madam Bones.

“How do you know all this, Albus? I’m not saying that I have any sympathy with Cornelius’ position, but I would like to know whether you’re stating provable fact or, shall we say, improvising.”

“I am describing the events as they were told to me by eyewitnesses.”

“Witnesses plural? Not just Malfoy’s word on it?”

“I have not asked Mr. Malfoy to describe his torture and imprisonment. I did not think it prudent or necessary. He is extremely weak, suffering the effects of the Fecundus Charm, his daughter’s rather violent birth and his part in Voldemort’s death. He was also, I might add, seriously injured by the healers who took Lily. The stunning spell and subsequent fall reopened his wounds, and he was bleeding badly the last time I checked in on him.”

A fresh hum of conjecture met this statement but Madam Fox would not be distracted. “So who told you what happened in that prison?”

Dumbledore glanced over his shoulder, and Ron immediately stepped forward.

“I was there, Madam Bones. I saw it all.”

“And you are?”

“Ronald Weasley, Ma’am.”

“Arthur’s youngest boy?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And you were one of the students taken by You-Know-Who?”

“I was the one who helped kidnap Malfoy from Hogwarts.” The hum rose louder, and Ron lifted his chin in defiance. “Professor Dumbledore is trying to protect me, because he knows I never would’ve done it, if I could’ve resisted the Imperius Curse. But I couldn’t, so I brought Wormtail… uh, Peter Pettigrew, onto the grounds, stole Harry’s invisibility cloak, and smuggled both Pettigrew and Malfoy back out through the wards under the cloak. I didn’t want to. Malfoy is my friend—my best friend, next to Harry—and I hate that I did that to him. I hate that I helped drag Harry into a war. But I’m not sorry that they’ve got Iff… I mean, Lily, out of it. She’s perfect. And she’s got nothing to do with You-Know-Who. She’s Harry’s daughter, and Malfoy’s, and if you take her away from them, then you’re just evil. That’s what I think, anyway.”

“Well, regardless of what you think, we need to know the facts,” Madam Bones said with gruff kindness. “You’re admitting that you took Malfoy out of Hogwarts against his will?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Me and Wormtail. Peter Pettigrew.”

“Then you and Malfoy were taken to Azkaban, along with some other students.”

“That’s right.”

“And you saw the Dark Lord use the Fecundus Charm on Malfoy?”

“Yeah, we were in this dungeon, just the two of us most of the time. I was in a kind of cage by the wall. Malfoy was bound to a big table the whole time.”

“He didn’t have his hand? The one that works as a wand?”

“No.” Ron felt his face tighten and his stomach twist. “Bellatrix Lestrange cut it off, right after they captured him.”

“Cut it off? You mean, released the spell that kept it on?”

“No, Ma’am. She made this blade come out of her wand and she…” He swallowed the sickness in his throat and finished, thickly, “hacked it off. I was sick. That’s what finally broke the Imperius Curse.”

Dumbledore spoke up, his voice mild but his face implacable. “Does that sound like the treatment of a willing captive?”

“It does not,” Madam Bones ground out. “All right, Weasley. Tell us what happened to Malfoy.”

So Ron told them, as simply and honestly as he could. He told them about the freezing dungeon, the stone table, the terrible spell that stretched Draco on a rack for three days as it destroyed his body. He told them about his attempt to escape, using the severed hand, and how Narcissa had thwarted him. Then he described the hideous moment when Voldemort cut the baby from Draco’s body and put out his eyes to prevent him ever seeing her face.

The entire room was silent while he talked, and he saw more than one wizard lift a hand to stifle a gasp or blot at a cheek with a sleeve. He tried to keep his gaze on Madam Bones, sure that her blunt, kindly, unsentimental face would allow him to get through it all without embarrassing himself. He did it, but his voice was getting rough by the time he described seeing Draco carried off to a distant cell and thinking that his friend was going to die in the freezing darkness of Azkaban, without ever touching his daughter.

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” Madam Bones said, and her voice was a trifle thicker than before. “I do have one question for you.”

Ron tried to look respectful and eager to help.

“How can you be so sure that the child is Harry Potter’s?”

“I know it is.”

“Yes, but how?”

“Draco would never…”

“Perhaps not, but he may not have had a choice. Were you with him at every minute after his capture?”

Ron thought about that for a moment, then reluctantly conceded, “No. He was already in the dungeon when they brought me there. I don’t know how long he’d been on that table. But…”

“Thank you. You’ve answered my question.”

“No, I haven’t, because you’re saying that Lily could be _his._ _Voldemort’s_. And she couldn’t!”

“The fact is, she could.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. He knew she was wrong, but he didn’t know how to convince her. He looked helplessly at Dumbledore and was faintly reassured to see the old wizard smile at him.

“I believe I can set your mind at ease on that point,” the old wizard said genially. Then, turning toward the heavy shadows at the back of the dungeon, he said, “If you would, my dear?”

At his summons, Narcissa Malfoy glided gracefully forward, her cloak still fastened close about her throat and her hood still hiding her face. She moved up beside Dumbledore and paused. Then she lifted her long, white hands to push back the hood.

Cries of alarm and anger echoed through the chamber, and more than one watcher drew a wand. Fudge leapt to his feet, his finger leveled at her, his face the color of Ron’s Gryffindor tie.

“Arrest her! She’s a Death Eater, a traitor! _Arrest her!_ ”

“Control yourself, Cornelius. Narcissa is here at my invitation and under my protection.”

“Another servant of the Dark Lord hiding under your robes, Dumbledore?!”

“Another former servant of Voldemort who saw the error of her ways. She came to me, before the final battle, and asked for my protection. She gave me vital information that allowed us to rescue those children and kill Voldemort. She has earned my help. And, like Ron Weasley, she witnessed the events at Azkaban.”

“I’ll bet she did,” a voice snarled from somewhere above them.

“You always were a fool for a hard luck story, Albus!” another voice called.

“Be that as it may, Madam Bones asked for proof, and Mrs. Malfoy can give it. Tell them, my dear, how you know the child is Harry Potter’s.”

“Because that’s what the Dark Lord wanted,” she answered in her chill, haughty voice. Ron marveled that she could be so composed and regal under all those hostile eyes. “He wanted Harry Potter’s child to raise as his own, as his heir, and to fashion as a weapon to torment all of you. The idea of seeing you enslaved to the spawn of your greatest hero amused him.”

She swept them all with her frigid gaze and added, “My son tried to prevent it by telling the Dark Lord that he had lain with other men and the child would not be Potter’s, but he failed. The Dark Lord read the truth—that he had been with Potter alone—and conceived the child.”

“But Potter wasn’t there!” someone called. “He couldn’t be the father!”

“That doesn’t matter, as long as… harrumph!” Madam Fox stalled out as embarrassment got the better of her.

A few of the listeners tittered, and Ron felt a flare of hot anger inside him. They were laughing at his friends, making a game of their suffering and dragging their private lives out for examination. He opened his mouth to protest, but Narcissa got in before him.

“My son bore Harry Potter’s child. He did not ask for it, he did not want it, but he was forced to do it at peril of his life. You would punish him for failing to defeat the Dark Lord, alone and unarmed, but even Harry Potter could not do it alone. Even Harry Potter needed the help of another wizard at the moment of truth. He needed _my son_.”

She paused, and Ron felt the urge to applaud. The Wizengamot were all staring at her, hostility, discomfort and traces of sympathy in their faces.

“Draco chose none of this. His only choice was to stand with Harry Potter against the Dark Lord. But still you punish him. Still you revile him. And now you would take his child from him? You have no conscience, no soul, no _right_. She is his, and you have no right to take her from her mother.”

Dead silence met her words, as nearly everyone listening squirmed at the thought of Draco Malfoy as a mother. Ron, however, beamed at her. Predictably, it was Fudge who threw off the somber mood produced by her speech.

“You are in no position to preach morality to _us_ ,” he said, testily. “You are a criminal in the eyes of the wizarding world, no matter what Albus Dumbledore says to the contrary.”

Narcissa have a single, regal nod.

“I could have you arrested on the spot! You and your precious son!”

“Ah, now, Cornelius,” Madam Bones cautioned, “I’d be careful what I say about young Mr. Malfoy, if I were you.”

Fudge gaped at her like a furious, dying fish, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “You’re taking the word of a known Death Eater over mine? You’re actually _believing_ this nonsense?!”

“It’s not just her word against yours. It’s the weight of evidence falling on Dumbledore’s side, leaving you with precious little justification for your continued attacks on the Malfoy boy.”

“I don’t know, Amelia,” a witch with lacquered blonde hair, seated in the fourth row, said. “This all seems pretty fishy to me. The boy gets pregnant with no father around, or so his mother says. Then he bears a child that never should have survived, and lives, himself, to tell about it? Where’s the proof that Malfoy bore the child at all? And if he didn’t, where’s the poor mite’s mother, I’d like to know? Shouldn’t we be looking for her, rather than discussing handing the baby over to some… well… _person_ who may have no more claim to her than you or I?”

Several voices broke out in support of this position, while Ron noticed that Dolores Umbridge was suddenly looking very pleased with herself, as if she had been the one to offer this argument. Ron gave her a squinty look, willing her to turn and meet his eyes so he could give her a proper glare.

“So now we’re investigating the maternity of the child, as well as its paternity?” Amos Diggory interjected.

“We’re investigating neither,” Dumbledore replied, an edge to his voice that warned Ron he was running out of patience. “We’re investigating Cornelius Fudge’s illegal practices in regards to Draco and his daughter.”

“ _If_ she’s his daughter,” the blonde witch reminded him.

“I assure you, that much is beyond question.”

“So you say, but how do we know?”

Dumbledore’s brows rose alarmingly. “You know, because I give you my word that it is so.”

“Ah, well,” Umbridge sat forward in her seat, inserting her sickly-sweet voice into the conversation for the first time, “if you’ll excuse me saying so Albus, that is the crux of the problem.”

“Dolores.” Dumbledore smiled dangerously at her. “I was wondering when we’d hear from you. I am the crux of the problem? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Your known, ahem, _fondness_ for the Malfoy boy, to be specific.”

“I see. Now you are accusing me of inappropriate behavior?”

“Gracious, no! I’m accusing you of nothing more than a lack of objectivity. A fault, I’m afraid, that makes you unqualified to bear witness in this case.”

“I see.” His blue eyes bored into her for a moment, and his smile froze. “It’s a shame you feel that way, because my word is all you’re going to get.”

“Perhaps if qualified Ministry wizards were to examine the boy…” yet another purple-robed wizard began, but Dumbledore cut him off without hesitation or apology.

When he spoke, the seething anger in him was closer to the surface than Ron had ever seen it. “The answer to that is No.”

“Now, look here, Dumbledore,” the blonde witch began.

“I’m afraid this is the last straw,” the old wizard said bluntly. He drew himself up to his full, commanding height, and fury seemed to roll off of him like smoke. “You will not speak to Draco Malfoy. You will not examine him. You will not subject him to one more indignity in the name of truth or justice or whatever other lie you choose to tell yourselves. He is under my protection, as is his daughter, and will not allow you to hurt him again. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Dead silence answered him. Then Dolores Umbridge stirred and cleared her throat in her provoking way. “It sounds to me as if you are, once again, overstepping your bounds.”

“It sounds to me as if you are, once again, trying manipulate the minds of honest, well-meaning people for your own questionable ends, Dolores Umbridge, and I am not in the mood to indulge you.”

His gaze swept the gallery again, and the Wizengamot visibly flinched under its touch.

“I am done playing the senile, old dodderer. Too long have I sat back and smiled, while you toyed with the lives of people I care about, intent on keeping the peace, keeping our world together, so that we could face a greater evil that threatened our very existence. Well, that threat has been removed—by the very people you are now assailing—and I have no need of your cooperation anymore. I. Am. Done.”

He let those words lie on the ground before him for a moment, daring anyone to challenge them. Then he went on in a tone that was milder but, for all that, more deadly. “I have no wish to start another war when we have so lately concluded one, but make no mistake, I will if I must. Return the child, Lily Potter Malfoy, to me now. Stay away from Hogwarts unless invited there by me or one of my staff. Release Draco Malfoy from his guardianship and return him to his full rights as an adult wizard of good standing. Make no further move, _of any kind_ , against him or Mr. Potter, unless or until one of them actually breaks a law. Do all of these things and there will be no open hostilities between us.

“But move against me, refuse to meet my demands, and you will find out just how quickly a senile, old dodderer can muster his forces to resist you! And consider, before you make your choice, that _mine_ are the forces that defeated Voldemort, not yours. Not the Ministry of Magic or her fearless leader. _My_ forces. The same wizards who will meet you with their wands in their hands if you threaten the peace they have won with so much pain and loss.

“Think about it. I will give you…” he took a large watch from his pocket and studied it for a moment, “five minutes.”

He turned toward the back of the dungeon, drawing Ron and Narcissa Malfoy along in his wake, but Madam Bones rose to her feet, forestalling him.

“Wait, Albus! What of the charges leveled at Cornelius?”

“I have provided a detailed Charge sheet to Percy Weasley. Examine them at your leisure— _after_ you have returned Miss Malfoy to her parents.”

“Will you be available to provide evidence and witnesses, should we bring him to a formal trial?”

“Of course.”

Turning on Fudge, she growled, “Where’s the child, Cornelius?”

Fudge squirmed in his chair and looked away. “He’s presented no evidence to persuade me that the child should be released.”

“Damn your eyes, you fool! It’s you who’ve produced no evidence! Not one, single shred of evidence that that child should be taken from her parents!”

“If we only knew who those parents might be,” Umbridge simpered.

“Shut your mouth, Dolores,” Madam Bones snarled, “or I’ll start demanding that _you_ prove your parentage and ancestry! We have ample witnesses that the child is Draco Malfoy’s and no conceivable excuse for keeping her away from him.”

“And if Voldemort is her father?”

“Voldemort is dead. He has no parental claims on her.”

“That’s not what I…”

“I know exactly what you meant, and I don’t want to hear it.” Turning to look up at the rows of purple-robed witches and wizards behind her, she called, “Those in favor of returning Lily Potter Malfoy to her parents, please stand!”

Kingsley Shacklebolt was the first one out of his seat, with Madam Fox only a breath behind him. A few other scattered figures rose, then a few more, then they started coming up by the handful. Madam Bones watched it in grim, satisfied silence, until it was clear that the motion had carried by an overwhelming majority. Then she turned on Fudge again and demanded, “Where is she?”

“St. Mungo’s,” he muttered, refusing to meet her eye.

“Where in St. Mungo’s? Who has charge of her?”

“A trainee healer on the Closed Ward. She seemed keen to take charge of a baby.”

“You put a newborn infant on the Closed Ward? Are you _mad?!_ ” Snatching a piece of parchment from in front of Percy, she shoved it at him and said, “Written instructions to release the child into Albus Dumbledore’s custody. _Now_. I’ll provide instructions from the Wizengamot, as well.”

She dropped into her seat, grabbed yet more parchment and a quill from Percy, and began scribbling on his desk. In a matter of moments, she had a folded letter that she held out to Dumbledore.

“Give that to the Healer-in-charge on the ward, along with this.” She snaked out an arm to snatch the parchment from Fudge the instant he had scrawled his signature. She took a moment to check it, then passed it along to Dumbledore. “I’ll wrap things up here and get back to you with documents to terminate your guardianship of Malfoy. I expect you’d rather not wait for all that.”

Dumbledore bowed his agreement, the twinkle back in his eyes. “No, indeed. You are a wonder of efficiency, Amelia.”

“Humph. I don’t want that child shut up on the Closed Ward any more than you do. Ah, Narcissa,” she called, as Mrs. Malfoy turned with Dumbledore to leave the dungeon, “not so fast! I have a few questions for you.”

Narcissa halted and turned to face the Wizengamot once again. Dumbledore put a restraining hand on her shoulder and bent close to murmur, “You don’t have to stay, my dear. You are still under my protection.”

To Ron’s surprise, Narcissa shook her head and actually smiled. “You will only weaken your position, if you insist on defending the guilty. And unlike my son, I am actually guilty.”

“This could end badly for you.”

“I knew that when I offered to come.” She reached out to touch Dumbledore’s arm, very briefly, then dropped her hand. “Tell Draco that I was glad to do this, and that I’m not afraid of what is to come.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Dumbledore, for everything.”

“Thank you, my dear Narcissa. And if there’s anything I can do to help you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

She smiled again, wanly, and drifted up to the barrier in her regal, unearthly way. Dumbledore sighed in regret but did not linger now that her decision was made. Catching Ron by the arm and signaling to Moody, he strode out of the dungeon with his head high and a smile on his bearded lips.

*** *** ***

Ron came through the door to the hospital wing with Iffy tucked safely in his arms and triumphant smile on his face. Hermione and Madam Pomfrey, who were huddled together, talking, looked up at his entrance. Their eyes moved to the little bundle he held and their jaws dropped.

“Ron!” Hermione breathed, leaping up from her seat on an empty bed, “You found her! You _did it!_ ”

Ron shrugged and grinned, then nodded at Dumbledore, who followed only a stride behind him. “Actually, it was the Headmaster, but here we are.”

“And how is our precious girl?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“Getting hungry and noisy.” As if to prove his point, Iffy flailed her arms and fussed at him, her slate-blue eyes gazing around at them all in accusation.

“I’ll ready a bottle. You’d better get her in to her parents, and I’ll bring it along in a moment.”

“Ta, Madam Pomfrey.” Shooting a look at Dumbledore, he asked, hopefully, “Can I do the honors?”

“Of course.”

Breaking out in another grin, Ron crossed to the inner door in a few long strides. Once he’d given his password, it swung open under his hand.He stepped through it, into the smaller room.

The drapes were closed over the tall windows and the candles were burning, giving Ron the disorienting sense that no time had passed since he’d left. Malfoy lay curled up under a thick layer of blankets, just as usual, but Harry had joined him in the bed, lying close behind him. And Ron noticed that the bed itself seemed substantially larger—large enough to hold two grown men and a baby, if necessary. Apparently Madam Pomfrey had bowed to the inevitable and provided Harry with room to sleep.

He wasn’t asleep, however, and at the sound of the door opening, his head came up. He blinked myopically at the intruders, then sat up and fumbled on a table behind the bed for his glasses. Ron didn’t wait for him to bring them into focus, but promptly crossed to the bed, with Dumbledore behind him and Hermione lurking uncertainly in the doorway.

Harry shoved the glasses up his nose, looked down at the baby in Ron’s arms, and got the same gobsmacked expression on his face that Hermione had produced just a moment before.

“Lily!” he cried in a whisper, reaching for his daughter.

Ron ignored his outstretch hands. Holding the baby close, he shot his friend a pleading look. “Can I…?” He jerked his head toward the sleeping Malfoy.

“He’s pretty heavily dosed with pain and sleep potions. I don’t know if he’ll wake up.”

“He will for Iffy.”

Harry gazed down at the baby for another moment, fairly aching to touch her, then surrendered and bent over the sleeping boy beside him. He brushed the tumbled hair back from Draco’s face, revealing one thin, shadowed cheek, and murmured in his ear, “Wake up, Dragon. Lily’s home.”

Malfoy did not stir.

Ron took the more direct approach, carefully tucking the baby into her usual place against Draco’s chest. She cried fretfully, but when she felt the familiar softness of flannel pajamas against her cheek, she clutched a fistful of fabric and burrowed her face into the shirt.

“Ferret?” Ron ventured. He caught Draco’s wrist and guided his hand in to rest against Iffy’s back. “Come on, Ferret, wake up. Please.”

As Iffy uttered another angry wail, Draco finally showed signs of life. His hand twitched against her tiny body, and his head turned so that Ron could see more of his face. He looked ruddy awful—his skin a sickly grey-white, his eyes set in purple shadows, his lips bloodless, and his features twisted with pain even in his drugged sleep—but when his lashes lifted and his eyes found Ron in the darkness, the Gryffindor could tell that he was fully alert, even if he barely had the strength to open his eyes.

“Weasel,” he whispered.

“Hey, Ferret.” Ron still clasped his wrist, holding his hand in position on Iffy’s back, and he squeezed it in greeting. “Look who else is here.”

His silver-white brows drew together in a frown of confusion, until Ron guided his hand up to cradle Iffy’s head, and the baby moved against him. Then confusion dissolved into wonder. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open, while his fingers tightened around the baby’s delicate skull. He took a single, sobbing breath, his eyes still fixed blindly on Ron, and gasped, “Iffy!”

“Yeah.” Ron’s grin was wide enough to split his face in half, but his eyes burned with tears. “She’s home for good. Dumbledore saw to that.”

Draco shifted slightly to free his left arm so he could hold the baby in both hands. Then, with Ron’s help, he shifted her up closer to his head and laid her against the pillow. She squirmed and fussed, declaring to the room at large that she was hungry and not at all happy about it, but Draco only smiled at the noise. He cradled her head in his adamant hand, making sure she didn’t roll from the bed in her outrage, and touched her face gently with his flesh-and-blood fingers. His eyes, blind as they were, and dulled by sickness, shone with happiness.

“My baby ferret,” he murmured, so only Ron and Harry could hear it.

Harry shot Ron an accusing look, but his friend only laughed.

“My Iffy.”

“Your Iffy is getting hungry,” Ron said prosaically.

Draco ignored him, intent only on the joy of holding his baby again, unfazed by her increasing levels of noise. He stroked her face with his fingers, then touched his lips to her forehead in an almost tentative kiss. Iffy waved a hand at him, smacking him in the cheek and bringing a wan ghost of his old, gleaming smile to his face.

“She’s really here.” He suddenly seemed to remember the presence of his love in the bed behind him, and he turned his head in Harry’s direction. “Harry?”

“I’m here,” Harry put a hand on Draco’s shoulder, leaning over him to get a better look at the baby, “with both of my ferrets.”

“Is she all right?”

“You’d know better than me. I haven’t even had a chance to touch her, yet.”

Draco gave a small sob of laughter. He pulled Iffy closer to his body while she screamed yet more insistently, drawing another painful laugh from him. “I can’t feed you, Iffy.”

“Certainly you can,” Madam Pomfrey announced, as she bustled up to the bed with a glass bottle in her hands. “I’ve told the house-elves to keep a bottle ready at all times, so all you have to do is ask for it. Now, Mr. Malfoy, you tell me what’s most comfortable for you, and we’ll get you settled.”

“No, Harry…” He turned his gaze in Harry’s direction and whispered, “You feed her.”

Harry grinned happily at that, but almost immediately looked panicked. “I’ve never fed a baby!”

“There’s nothing to it,” Madam Pomfrey assured him. “Just find a comfortable place to sit, and I’ll show you how.”

After a moment’s discussion, Harry settled himself with his back to the headboard and his legs stretched down the mattress, then he took Iffy in his arms and offered her the bottle. She needed no encouragement, but latched onto the nipple greedily and began to drink. Ron helped Draco turn onto his back, so he could lie close to Harry, rest his head against the other boy’s leg, and listen to the satisfied noises Iffy made as she sucked down the contents of the bottle. Dumbledore, Pomfrey and Hermione watched all of this but made no comment beyond the occasional suggestion to Harry on how to hold the bottle more effectively.

When Iffy was fed, burped and dressed in a clean nappy, all managed by her somewhat bemused father, Dumbledore waved Madam Pomfrey out of the room and shot Hermione a meaningful look that sent her hurrying after the nurse. He watched Harry place the baby on Draco’s chest and tuck the blankets up around them both, a gleam of approval in his eyes, then he skirted the bed to speak quietly to Harry.

“Is there anything that you or Draco need, Harry?”

“I don’t think so, Professor, but I’m not much good with babies. I may be missing something.”

The blue eyes laughed at him over the tops of half-moon spectacles. “You’re learning fast, my boy.” He clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and added, still more quietly, “We haven’t had a chance to talk since we left the island, just you and I. Why don’t you come up to my office and have a cup of tea?”

Harry’s eyes turned wary. “I don’t have to play the hero again, do I?”

Dumbledore smiled in understanding. “Not at all. This is just a little chat between friends.”

“I can’t leave Draco and Lily right now…”

“Of course not. Take your time. Enjoy your family. Come whenever you’re ready.” He turned to leave, saying to Ron as he moved past him, “Why don’t you give Harry and Draco some privacy, Mr. Weasley?”

“Ron can stay,” Harry said quickly, then added, “if he wants.”

Draco grunted his agreement, and Ron broke out in a huge grin. As Dumbledore left the room, Ron settled into the chair by Draco’s head and reached over to pat Iffy’s back. The old wizard paused in the doorway to glance back at the group collected in and around the bed, and smile of supreme satisfaction warmed his lined face.

*** *** ***

“Come in, my boy. Sit down.”

Harry slipped through the door and into Dumbledore’s office, glancing once around the room to assure himself that no celebratory mob of well-wishers lurked in the shadows. It was empty, apart from Dumbledore, Fawkes the Phoenix, and the usual collection of portraits in various states of alertness. Today, they all appeared to be feigning sleep, and Harry guessed that Dumbledore had instructed them to leave him alone.

The room was bathed in a soft, dreamy evening light that startled Harry. He had been so obsessed with his troubles and the tragedies threatening his family for so many days, that he had lost track of what day it actually was, much less what time of day. Apparently, while he was holed up in the hospital wing with a critically-ill Draco, the rainstorms of October had given way to a rare, perfect Autumn day, and that day was dying in a golden haze.

Harry moved over to the desk where Dumbledore sat and took one of the three wingback chairs standing in front of it. A corner of his mind registered the extra chair, just as it noticed that the tea tray on the desk had four delicate, china cups on it, but he didn’t let it concern him. Whoever was joining them had not yet arrived and he had the old wizard to himself for a few, precious minutes.

“Have you eaten?” Dumbledore asked, as he waved his wand and sent the teapot soaring over one cup.

Harry shook his head.

“Sandwiches and biscuits, I think, then.”

Another wave of his wand, and two plates appeared above the desk with a pop. One contained a pile of neat sandwiches, their crusts duly trimmed off, and the other an even larger pile of chocolate biscuits. Harry’s stomach promptly grumbled. He accepted a cup of tea from Dumbledore, took a grateful sip, and reached for a sandwich.

As he bit into the sandwich, a wave of incredible, warm, engulfing weariness swept over him, and he sank back into the chair under its weigh. It was a feeling unlike any he’d ever known before. It weighted his limbs, pressed him into the chair, filled his head with a soft cloud of exhaustion, but it was made up as much of happiness as exhaustion. He let his head fall back against the chair and his eyes drift nearly closed. He smiled, then he laughed, and he heard Dumbledore chuckling with him.

Dragging his eyelids up a notch, he turned his head to find the old wizard, still seated behind his desk, elbows propped on its top, hands clasping a teacup and eyes fixed on Harry over the tops of his spectacles. He greeted Harry’s gaze with a smile and said, “It’s just hit you, hasn’t it?”

Harry laughed again, though it took his last shred of energy to draw that much air into his lungs. “We did it. We really did it.”

“We most certainly did.” Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed with unexpected tears, in addition to the happiness shining so brightly in them. “You have my deepest, most profound thanks, my boy. But I shouldn’t call you that, anymore, should I?” he amended quickly. “You are no boy, but a most remarkable young man. And I am… more proud of you than I can possibly express.”

Harry just smiled at him. Under any other circumstances, he would have squirmed under such lavish praise from his guide and mentor, but today, he accepted it as simply another wondrous part of this wondrous day. He had defeated Voldemort—he and Draco and Dumbledore and all the others who had fought with them—and just this once he would accept the praise that was usually such a burden to him. Because, just this once, he had earned it.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled merrily, as he lifted the plate of biscuits and held it out to him. “Have a chocolate biscuit. You’ve earned it.”

Harry laughed and reached for the plate. He dipped the biscuit in his tea, then took a bite, savoring it as though he had never tasted the like, and in some corner of his brain, he reflected that perhaps he had not. Perhaps food tasted better when evil was dead and the world was free.

“Here is something else for you,” Dumbledore said, reaching into a drawer and lifting out a limp mass of loose, silvery fabric. “Rufus Scrimgeour sent it with his apologies. He did not know it belonged to you, or he would have returned it sooner.”

Harry gathered up the cloak, smiling at the feel of the soft, slithery fabric between his fingers. “I thought it was lost for good.”

“After all these centuries? I would have moved mountains to find it and return it to its true owner.”

“Thank you.” The look Harry gave to Dumbledore was brimming with gratitude—not just for the return of the cloak, but for everything the old wizard had done for him in the last few days and in all the years of his life. Both men felt the depth and breadth of those thanks and both understood all the things that had never been spoken between them, things that need never be spoken now.

The burden of years off his shoulders, Harry subsided once more into a peaceful somnolence and drank his tea. He and Dumbledore ate in companionable silence, until the door opened to admit Professors Snape and McGonagall. Harry was not remotely surprised to see them, having surmised that the empty cups and chairs were for them, nor was he sorry. He smiled a greeting to McGonagall and nodded neutrally at Snape. They took their seats, accepted their tea, and sipped in silence for a moment.

When McGonagall had drained her first cup of tea and accepted a second from the Headmaster, she turned her gimlet gaze on Harry and asked, “How is Malfoy?”

“Better, now that he has Lily back. Madam Pomfrey thinks he’ll mend, in time.”

“It’s nothing short of a miracle that he survived.”

“I don’t really want to think about that.”

“No.” She smiled, and the lined, severe face softened unbelievably. “Of course you don’t. Well, the worst is over and you can enjoy yourselves for a change.”

“With a newborn infant in the room?” Snape said, his tone unusually benign, if just a bit snarky.

“She’s lovely, really,” Harry murmured, then flushed when both Dumbledore and McGonagall turned approving looks on him.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Dumbledore said. “It will make things easier, when you have to spend your free minutes caring for her instead of play Quidditch with your friends.”

“Oh, I’ll still play Quidditch. I’ll just take her with me. She’s a Potter, after all, so she’s bound to love it.”

McGonagall looked as though she couldn’t decide whether to be amused or disapproving at that, so she took another sip of tea to cover her reaction.

“But that reminds me,” Harry went on, “I was wondering about Draco, whether you’ll let him stay on at Hogwarts, once he’s well enough to leave the hospital wing.”

“Where else would he go?” Snape asked, blankly.

“This is his home,” Dumbledore said at the same moment. “Why would you doubt that he can stay?”

“Well… he has a baby to take care of, and he…”

“He can’t see,” Snape finished for him.

“Right. So, how can he go to class, do his homework, take his exams, and still look after Lily? Because I’m telling you, he won’t give her up!”

“No one is suggesting that,” McGonagall said, firmly. “And I’m sure we can find a way around his difficulties. He may have to agree to leave Lily in the care of Madam Pomfrey, or one of the house-elves, while he’s in class.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully and mused, “I can’t see him bringing her to class, not with the distraction and disruption that would cause. We’re simply not accustomed to the presence of infants at Hogwarts, and not set up to accommodate them.”

“See, that’s what I mean,” Harry said, anxiously. “You start talking about it, and your mind goes right to how he can’t keep her with him.”

“Trust us to come up with a solution, Potter.”

“I do. I’m just worried.” He looked at each of their faces in turn, reading the genuine concern in them. “You see, if Draco leaves, then I have to leave, and I don’t want to go until I’ve finished my education. So, it matters to both of us.”

Dumbledore replied, seriously, “We’re well aware of that, Harry, and we have no intention of letting either of you leave. We’ll find a way for Draco to finish out the year, take his exams, and stay with his class. We will also find a way for both Draco and his daughter to live comfortably in the castle.”

“Not in the Slytherin dungeon? Please?”

“His dormitory is almost empty,” Snape offered gruffly.

“Yes, but I can’t go down there, not often, and I won’t be separated from Lily, either. Besides, the dungeon is rather… well…”

“Dank and depressing?” McGonagall offered, with grim humor.

“Fine,” Snape huffed, slumping back in his chair.

“We’ll find a suitable home for them,” Dumbledore assured him. “We can’t keep the Room of Requirement anchored in the hospital wing indefinitely, but it will do for the present. By the time Draco is ready to leave it, we’ll have someplace for him to go.”

Harry accepted this and subsided into his chair again to consume another few biscuits. He was feeling comfortably full and even more sleepy than before, when he thought of something else he wanted to discuss with Dumbledore, while he had the chance. Straightening up and sliding his cup onto the desk, he turned to find the Headmaster’s keen gaze fixed on him. Exactly as if he knew what was on Harry’s mind, which was entirely possible.

“Can I ask you something, Professor?”

“Certainly.”

“It’s about the prophecy.”

“Ah.” A smile glimmered in Dumbledore’s eyes. “I was wondering when we’d come to that.”

Harry glanced at McGonagall and Snape. “You’ve both seen it, haven’t you? The centaurs’ prophecy about Draco?”

They both nodded wordlessly.

“Well, it occurred to me… it came true. They were right.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Because Voldemort made it come true.”

“Right, I get that, but _it came true._ ”

“Yes.”

“So, if the prophecy came true, then Draco’s sacrifice won the war.” Again, the Headmaster nodded agreement. “But, what was it, do you think? What sacrifice?”

“I don’t think there’s a right answer to that. I think, like all aspects of prophecy, it is open to interpretation. Voldemort clearly thought that Draco’s child was the necessary sacrifice.”

“Or his sight, or his _life_ ,” Harry added, frowning.

“I think, in Voldemort’s view, those were side benefits. He always intended for Draco to die, so having him die as a result of bearing your child would only be a sort of poetic justice for him. As for his sight… well, that was a simple act of cruelty. Something in which Voldemort excelled.”

“It was really Malfoy’s capture that launched the war,” Snape pointed out, “so perhaps his freedom was the sacrifice needed. After all, it drew Potter into the open and gave the Dark Lord the opportunity to kill him.”

“As I say, it’s always open to interpretation,” Dumbledore said.

“Yes, but what do _you_ think?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment, fingers steepled and resting against his lips, then he said, “I think you already know the answer.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, anxious for a straight answer instead of a lesson, but Dumbledore waved him to silence.

“Think about it, Harry. What did Draco give you that meant your victory?”

Harry sat there, his mouth at half-cock, for a handful of seconds, then suddenly, the light dawned. “His magic!”

“Of course. You remember I told you that a sacrifice can be as simple as a gift, freely given? Well, Draco gave you a gift—the power you needed to withstand Voldemort.”

“But…” Harry blinked at him and said, his voice scaling up in disbelief, “you’re saying, after all the terrible things that have happened to him, all the things he’s lost and the ways he’s been hurt, all he needed to do was share his power with me? That’s _it?!_ ”

“He did far more than share his power. He emptied himself of magic, of emotion, of thought, potentially of his very life, so that you could defeat your enemy. He gave you his spirit. That is a kind of sacrifice that very few of us could ever make.” His voice dropped to a quiet murmur. “I could not.”

“Nor I,” McGonagall said.

Snape just shook his head.

“It takes a courage, a conviction and—dare I use the word about Mr. Malfoy—a love that are rare, indeed. His love for you was the ultimate weapon against Voldemort.”

Harry sat, his eyes fixed sightlessly on a point somewhere behind Dumbledore’s shoulder, digesting all of this. It made perfect sense. He knew that Dumbledore was right, as he so often was, but some part of Harry revolted at the idea that his beloved archangel, his Malfoy puffer fish, his dragon lover had suffered so much horror and pain and indignity for nothing.

Then he thought of Draco’s love for him. How it had grown from a jealously-guarded secret into an overwhelming force of nature that swept even Lord Voldemort away with its power. How it had been tested, matured and tempered in the cold of the dementors, Stonehenge and Azkaban, in the heat of Voldemort’s fury, in the blood and agony of Lily’s birth. He thought of Lily, that most precious gift born out of the most dreadful pain. He thought of the life that awaited them, if they could throw off the shadows of this final trial and step into the sunlight together.

In the end, that was all that mattered. They were together—Harry, Draco and Lily. They were a family. Maybe he could have had Draco without all the horror and darkness, but who could say? He certainly would not have had Lily, and in only a day, he had already reached a place where life without her was unthinkable. So who was to say what was necessary and what was not?

His gaze came back into focus and shifted to Dumbledore’s lined, wise, ancient face. It was slightly creased with worry, but at the look in Harry’s eyes, he relaxed.

Harry smiled crookedly at him and said, “Please, don’t ever say that last bit, about love, to Draco.”

Dumbledore chuckled richly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

**_To be continued…_ **

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. The Missing Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All about love, healing, Christmas, dancing, stories in The Daily Prophet, and yes, a bit of sex.

****“Oi! Look at this!”

Harry glanced up from his scrambled eggs to see Ron bent over a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that he had spread out on the table. “What?”

“They did it! They really _did it!_ ”

“Did what?” Harry repeated, mystified.

“Got rid of that pillock Fudge. And Umbridge, too. Blimey! I thought they were going to ignore everything Dumbledore told them.”

“Give me that,” Hermione demanded, snatching up the paper before Ron could stop her. “Listen to this, Harry.” She began to read.

 

**_Shakeup at the Ministry!_ **

_Today the Ministry of Magic reported the ouster of several highly-placed officials, including Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge and Senior Undersecretary to the Minister Dolores Umbridge. Fudge and Umbridge were forced out after the Wizengamot opened a criminal investigation into their activities during the recent conflict with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. A handful of other Fudge supporters were summarily fired for malfeasance, while still others resigned to avoid a similar fate._

 

She broke off and shot a worried glance at Ron. “They don’t say anything about Percy. I wonder if he kept his job?”

“Keep reading. Maybe they give a list later.”

 

_In an official statement, Amelia Bones, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, said of Fudge and his followers, ‘They used the war against You-Know-Who as an excuse to do all kinds of disgraceful things. That’s nothing new. When people are afraid, they’ll put up with a lot for a sense of security. But the war is over and it’s time to clean house.’ Asked if Fudge had committed any actual crimes, Madam Bones replied, ‘We don’t know yet. We’re still looking into the charges brought against him. But I guarantee you, if he’s broken Wizarding Law, he’ll have to face the consequences.’_

 

 _“_ Oh, here’s good news!” she exclaimed, then quickly read,

 

 _Kingsley Shacklebolt has been named acting Minister for Magic_ _and, in a surprise move, long-time Ministry hack Arthur Weasley has been elevated to the position of Senior Undersecretary to the Minister._

 

“Blimey!” Ron said again. “Dad’s got Umbridge’s job? He won’t like that. No Muggle rubbish to nick.”

Hermione went on, smiling,

 

_When asked what, exactly, a Senior Undersecretary does, Weasley replied, ‘Mostly, I just answer Kingsley’s mail.’_

_As this reporter observed firsthand, the Minister is currently receiving dozens of owls a day from people demanding proof that You-Know-Who is actually dead. They insist that they won’t be fooled this time, and only a public statement from Albus Dumbledore or The Boy Who Lived himself, Harry Potter, will convince them that the stories are true._

_Shacklebolt’s only word on the subject was, ‘I was there. I saw the whole thing. He’s dead. Now can I get back to work?’_

_Arthur Weasley followed this up with, ‘That’s right, dead as a doornail!’_

_This reporter pressed Weasley for details on the final battle outside the walls of Azkaban. He was a little more forthcoming than his boss, but volunteered little new information. ‘It was a decisive victory. You-Know-Who is dead, his followers are dead, fled or in prison, and our world is safe until the next Dark Wizard comes along. Not in our lifetimes, I hope.’_

_What about Harry Potter, this reporter asked? Did he fulfill the prophecies and defeat the Dark Lord? Was he, in fact, the Chosen One? Or was he just another attention-seeking adolescent with an overblown sense of his own importance?_

_‘Well, I don’t know anything about any prophecies,’ Weasley replied shiftily, ‘but I saw him kill the Dark Lord, if that’s what you’re asking. Harry Potter is a genuine hero, as are all the witches and wizards who fought that day. Especially…’_

 

“Ooh, Harry, listen to this!” Hermione interjected.

 

‘ _Especially young Draco Malfoy, who stood by Harry at the crucial moment. Without Malfoy, things might have gone very differently.’_

“Well done, Dad!” Ron crowed, earning him a slightly sour glance from Seamus, who was listening to all of this from farther along the table.

 

_No informed reader should be surprised by this bit of special pleading on Malfoy’s behalf. Arthur Weasley has always been a staunch supporter of Dumbledore and has considered Potter a member of his family since the orphaned boy befriended his youngest son at Hogwarts. With both Potter and Dumbledore working overtime to convince the wizarding world that Draco Malfoy is a misunderstood hero, Weasley was bound to tell the same tale._

_Our loyal readers, however, will remember the reports just a few short months ago of Malfoy’s arrest for the murder of his own father. He escaped conviction when Potter and Dumbledore convinced the Wizengamot that he had gone insane and didn’t know what he was doing when he struck down Lucius Malfoy with an Unforgivable Curse. In light of his defenders’ most recent claims, readers must decide for themselves whether Draco Malfoy is a conquering hero, a cold-blooded patricide, or a…_

 

“Oh! How dreadful!” Hermione said, flushing angrily. “How can they write such things after everything that Malfoy’s done?”

“Is it Rita Skeeter?” Harry asked.

“No, but it might as well be, what with all that rot about Mr. Weasley being a _long-time Ministry hack_. They make it sound as if he doesn’t deserve a promotion, when everyone knows he was only held back by Fudge and his pureblood snobbery! And what they say about Draco is just… well… I won’t even read it.”

“Finish the article, Hermione,” Ron urged.

“The rest isn’t worth reading.” She folded the paper and slapped it down on the tabletop. When Ron reached for it, she smacked his hand away. “I’m sure Percy is all right, with Kingsley as Minister for Magic. He saw Percy on the island and knows he’s on our side.”

“Our side,” Harry said heavily. “I thought we were done picking sides.”

“We are, now that the Ministry has gotten rid of Fudge,” Ron said through a mouthful of porridge. “That’s what Dumbledore told the Wizengamot, anyway. It was brilliant, Harry! He basically told them that he’d fight a whole, new war, if they came after Ferret or Iffy, and if they really wanted peace—not just an armed truce—they had to arrest Fudge.”

“They haven’t arrested him, yet.”

“No, but they took away his precious title and his fancy office. And they put Kingsley in charge, which is really brilliant! Even if they never actually arrest Fudge, he’s got no power, so he can’t hurt anyone.”

“Hmph.” Harry took a random bite of his own breakfast without paying much attention to what he was eating.

“Herbology first thing this morning,” Hermione said, brightly, trying to dispel his gloom. “A breath of fresh air!”

Harry grimaced. “I can’t remember the last time I actually read an assignment for Herbology. I think I’ll skive off.”

“Oh, come on, Harry! All we do in class, now, is feed the plants in Greenhouse Three. Professor Sprout hasn’t given us a proper assignment in weeks.”

This was true. All the teachers had let their standards slip in the wake of the recent, stirring events. A few stalwarts, like McGonagall, made an effort to keep the students’ minds on their work, but even they recognized that it was a hopeless endeavor and didn’t fight too hard when their classes devolved into jokes and wandplay. McGonagall was starting to make noises about all the catch-up work they’d have to do, once the Christmas holidays were over, but Hermione was the only one who actually listened to her. The rest were simply indulging their high spirits and enjoying their freedom.

Harry had, in the loosest possible sense, rejoined his House and begun attending classes, but he was worse than anyone about forgetting homework, ignoring lectures and missing classes all together. Most of his professors turned a blind eye, knowing that he spent all his free time in the hospital wing with Malfoy and the baby. Harry took full advantage of their restraint.

He pushed back his plate, his appetite abruptly gone, and said, “I don’t need to practice feeding my fingers to some carnivorous plant.”

“Maybe not, but you need a change of scenery. You can’t spend the rest of the term in the hospital wing.”

“Why not?” he demanded. “That’s where Draco is.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably on the bench and ventured, unhappily, “Shouldn’t he be in class with the rest of us?” Harry just grunted, refusing to look at him. “Seems like this is the time to get himself back into the swing of things—when no one’s taking it very seriously. If he waits ’til after the hols…”

“I know this, Ron,” Harry cut in, testily. “Trust me, we all know, and we’ve all tried. Me, Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey, Madam Fox. Even Snape’s gotten in on it, stopping by to lecture him about his education and his future. All it does is make him dig his heels in harder.”

“He’s better, though, right? No more pain potions? So what’s the problem?”

Harry shot him a swift, furious look from beneath his lashes. “What d’you think?”

Ron opened his mouth, shut it, and swallowed. “Oh.”

“But I thought Dumbledore was teaching him all kinds of spells to help him…” Hermione began, only to let her words die away at a nudge from Harry.

He threw another swift glance over at Seamus, Dean and a whole line of avid faces ranged down the table beyond them, all waiting with baited breath to hear the latest delicious details about Malfoy’s mysterious disappearance. Then he turned back to Hermione and said, tightly, “You try telling him.”

She blinked at him, then lifted her chin. “Why not? He listens to me… sometimes. When he feels like it.”

Harry smiled reluctantly. “Yeah, about like he listens to me and Dumbledore and Snape and the rest. But you’re welcome to try.”

“Well, I will. In the meantime, you need to get out of that hospital wing and out of this castle, before you go stir-crazy. Come to Herbology with us. Then maybe tea with Hagrid. We don’t have class this afternoon, so we were thinking we’d pay him a visit.”

Harry felt an unexpected surge of longing to get out of the castle and spend a few hours in the open air—even the rather dangerous air of Greenhouse Three. “Okay, I’ll come to class with you. But I don’t expect I’ll make it to tea.”

“Bring Draco.”

He laughed shortly. “Yeah, right.”

* * *

A few hours later, Harry slipped into the Room of Requirement and shut the door behind him. Glancing around, he saw no sign of Draco, but this did not put him off. The Slytherin rarely left this room, and never without Harry as a guide, so he had to be here somewhere. Tiptoeing over to the nursery corner, he peered into the cradle and saw Lily curled up in it, sleeping peacefully. He watched her for a moment, unable to tear his eyes away from her lovely face, then he turned to the only remaining place where Draco might be hiding.

Crossing to the tall, arched windows, he pulled open the center drape. Draco sat in the deep window embrasure with his feet drawn up on the sill, his knees against his chest, his head propped on the chill glass, and his eyes gazing out at the bleak but commanding vista of Hogwarts in Winter. He did not react to the sound of the heavy, velvet drape moving or to the touch of air on his thinly-clad shoulders, but kept his blank gaze fixed on the window until Harry sat on the sill beside him and said,

“Are you all right?”

Blank grey eyes lifted to his face. “You’ve been outside,” he said by way of an answer.

“Herbology class. We fed the Venomous Tentacula.”

Draco shifted his gaze back to the window.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, anxiously. “Did you want to come to class with me? I should have asked, but you never…”

Draco shook his head, cutting him off.

“I wish you’d talk to me, Dragon. I hate to see you like this, but I can’t help if I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

Again, Draco shook his head, and Harry felt his frustration rise. He had spent the last month or more living two completely separate lives—one out in the castle with his classmates and teachers, and the other in this tiny room with the two most important people in his world. The two parts of his life rarely touched, because almost no one in the outside world even knew what had happened to Draco, much less showed any interest in seeing his face again, while Draco flatly refused to venture out among them. Harry understood his reluctance, and he tried not to push his wounded archangel too hard. But sometimes he simply wanted to sit down and talk to Draco about what he’d done that day without feeling that he was flaunting his freedom.

Today, Harry had succumbed to temptation and fled the castle for a brief respite from worry. He had thoroughly enjoyed it but now, faced with Draco’s tight-lipped, sullen withdrawal, he felt absurdly guilty.

“Please, Draco. _Please._ ” The blank gaze tracked back over to his face, but the other boy’s expression did not soften. “What have I done?”

“Nothing. It’s not you.”

Impulsively, Harry lifted a hand to cradle his head and was relieved when Draco leaned into his touch. “What can I do to fix it?”

“Give me my eyes back.”

Harry had nothing to say to this, so he opted instead to slide closer to Draco and gather the smaller boy into his arms. Draco came to him willingly, as he always did no matter what his mood, and lay against his chest. His body was warm and pliant, but his face was cold and desolate, even when held close in his lover’s embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Harry finally said.

“You didn’t do it. You couldn’t stop it. Even I can’t make this your fault.”

“I can still be sorry, can’t I?”

Draco fell quiet for a moment, then, just as Harry was searching for something to say to keep him from withdrawing even further, he murmured, “Do you know the hardest thing?”

“What?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“ _I_ want to laugh. It’s stupid. But it hurts so much…”

“What, Dragon? Tell me.”

“I can’t cry.” He swallowed to clear the lump from his throat and went on, roughly, “I don’t have any tears. It sounds like such a little thing, but sometimes I need to cry so badly, I think I’ll burst. Just fly apart from the pressure. Or lose my mind from the pain. I think… I swear, I think I could even stand the darkness if I could just cry once in a while.”

Harry was crying, but he kept very quiet about it and clenched his eyes shut to keep his tears from dripping into Draco’s hair. It took him a minute to master himself enough to speak. Finally he said, with only a hint of untoward thickness in his voice, “Maybe there’s something else you can do to get the same result. Something that doesn’t need tears.”

“Like what?” Draco said doubtfully.

“Well, the obvious thing would be screaming or swearing, but that might upset the baby.”

Draco gave a little choke of laughter and turned his face into Harry’s shoulder.

“What you need is a hobby.”

“Like, collecting Chocolate Frog cards?”

“No, something that uses more of your brain and lets you blow off steam. My cousin Dudley used to play video games—until he broke his game console. Then he started beating people up.”

“Hmm. We could convert our study hall to a Dueling Club, and I could hex all the Gryffindors to relieve my frustrations.”

“It worked for Big D.”

Draco straightened up and fixed him with a sardonic look. Harry was relieved to see the demon of laughter back in his eyes. “Big D? Seriously?”

“That was the name he adopted when he turned into a hoodlum. I would suggest one with more class for you.”

“Ferret Boy,” Draco said, sourly, and let his head settle into Harry’s shoulder again.

“Okay, so the hoodlum thing isn’t really your style.”

“Actually, it is. That’s the problem. I’m trying to break old habits of cruelty to helpless creatures.” He thought for a moment, then offered, “I could take up stomping on butterflies. At least they don’t squeal when they die.”

Harry felt his old annoyance rise that Draco would speak so dismissively about himself, but he squelched it and stuck to the problem at hand. “You could paint really ugly pictures—modern art at its most violent. Or write loud, angry rock music.”

“I could join the Weird Sisters… except, of course, that I can’t play or sing, but they might not care.”

“Playing the drums is good therapy. Lots of banging.”

“Again, lack of talent… and lack of drums.”

“Okay, so we need to think this through a bit…”

Then inspiration hit. Harry pushed Draco away from him and jumped to his feet. “I’ve got it!”

“What?”

“Never mind. I’ll be right back.”

“Harry…”

“No, I’m not giving you the chance to talk me out of it! You… put on your warmest clothes. And ask Madam Pomfrey to get Lily dressed! I’ll be back in a few minutes!” With that, he bolted out of the room, leaving Draco staring after him in bewilderment.

When he returned, he carried his Firebolt, his flying gloves, and Draco’s sumptuous, fur-lined winter cloak. Draco met him just inside the door with a demand to know what in bleeding hell he thought he was doing, but Harry ignored this attack.

“Where’s Lily? Is she ready?”

“Ready for _what?_ If you think I’m going outside…”

“I think you’re going to put on this very expensive cloak,” he swung the cloak around Draco’s shoulders and pushed his chin up so he could fasten the clasp, “and your Slytherin scarf… where is it?”

He whirled about the room in this manner, bundling Draco into cloak, scarf and gloves, then putting on his own cold-weather gear before lifting Lily from her cradle. She was wrapped in so many fluffy layers of clothing that she looked like a fat, grey-eyed caterpillar, staring limpidly at him from inside a furry hood.

“Tuck her inside your cloak… no, maybe your robe would be better. It wouldn’t do to drop her!”

“Potter, you’ve got exactly ten seconds before I hex you!”

Harry grinned at the adamant finger pointed at his nose and pulled the front of Draco’s robe closed around the baby. “Hold onto her.”

“Nine, eight, seven…”

“Now, let’s see how to open this window. Ah, good, it’s just a normal latch. Last time, they sealed the windows and made them unbreakable.” He pried open the latch and pushed hard against the tall, arched window. It swung reluctantly open, letting in a gush of frigid air.

“Three! Two! One!”

“Mount up!” Draco froze, his finger still leveled at Harry’s nose and his mouth open in shock. “Go on, you mount first. I’ll sit in front this time.” Catching Draco by the arm, Harry guided him over to where the Firebolt hung patiently in the air, waiting for them. “Hang on, it’s a little high for you.”

With a nudge of his hand, Harry coaxed the broom a few inches lower and Draco, moving as if under the Imperius Curse, swung his leg over the polished handle. Harry jumped on in front and waited for the smaller boy to slide up against him. When he felt Draco’s free arm go around his waist, he gave a crow of triumph and kicked off from the floor. A moment later, they were soaring through the open window, away from the castle, up into the wide, winter sky.

Harry flew easily, not pushing his broomstick or his passenger on this maiden flight, but even at its laziest, the Firebolt owned the sky. They swept up over the castle’s spires, startling an owl winging its way home to the owlery, then sped out over the lake. The wind in their faces was fiercely cold, but its touch filled Harry with a wild, euphoric joy that made him laugh aloud and urge the broom on still faster. Behind him, Draco huddled against his back, his arm like a bar of steel across his midriff, his thighs vibrating with tension. Harry could feel the air sobbing in his lungs, and he didn’t know if it was ecstasy or terror that shook him, but somehow he was sure that Draco wanted him to fly. To fly and fly and never stop.

He stayed in the air as long as he dared. His own face was numb, his hands frozen around the broom handle, when he turned back toward the castle, and if he was cold he knew that his passengers must be truly suffering. Lily was well protected, but she was only a tiny baby, after all. And Draco was still so thin, so weak from his terrible injuries, that he had no reserves of energy to withstand the bitter temperatures.

Flying low over the Forbidden Forest, Harry saw a spiral of smoke rising from its edge, and another flash of brilliance came to him. He slowed and dipped closer to the treetops, making for that drifting marker.

“Are we going back?” Draco asked, shouting into Harry’s ear over the rush of the wind.

“Not yet! Hold on…”

“I’m cold, Harry!”

“I know!”

They cleared the forest and Harry saw Hagrid’s cabin below them. He brought the Firebolt down in a gentle curve to halt just in front of the steps leading up to the cabin door. Climbing stiffly off the broomstick, Harry half-lifted Draco off as well, then pulled him into his arms. The Slytherin was really trembling now, and it was all from cold and exhaustion.

No sooner had their feet touched the brown grass than the cabin door flew open and Fang bounded out of it, barking a deafening welcome. Hagrid stood at the of the steps, calling, “Harry! Malfoy! Get yerselves in here before yeh freeze, yeh silly blighters!”

Draco stood, rigid with shock, with the enormous boarhound loping around him and leaping up to lick his face. Harry caught his arm, pulled him close, and said, laughing, “What you need, my chilly dragon, is a nice cup of tea!”

* * *

When tea was done and Ron and Hermione prepared to trudge back up to the castle, Hagrid offered to carry Malfoy under Harry’s invisibility cloak, to spare him a cold flight home. The Slytherin was too tired to walk that far, but he was not quite ready to let Hagrid, whom he was only just learning to tolerate, haul him about like a sack of meal. So the two boys chose to return as they had come, by broomstick. Draco was exhausted and frozen to the bone when he finally climbed off of the Firebolt and collapsed onto his own bed in the Room of Requirement. But when Harry sat down on the mattress beside him and stroked the windblown hair back from his forehead, he mustered a smile.

“Still feel like crying?” Harry asked, softly.

“I will when my feet start to thaw.” He smiled again to take the sting out of his joke and added, with complete sincerity, “That was brilliant, Harry. Thank you.”

“Any time.” He bent to kiss Draco’s chilly lips. “I love to fly with you.”

“Me, too.”

Draco looped an arm around his neck, pulling him down into a deeper kiss, but he didn’t have the energy to keep it up for long. Harry was just starting to get some interesting ideas, when Draco let his head drop back onto the pillow and his eyes fall closed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered soundlessly.

“Don’t be. Just let me get you settled, then I’ll fetch Lily so you can sleep.”

With the ease of much experience, he stripped off Draco’s heavy clothing and got him into bed beneath a heap of blankets. Then he fed, changed and rocked Lily, reducing her to a state of sleepy contentment, before carrying her to the bed and settling her in Draco’s arms.

It all took the better part of an hour, and dinner in the Great Hall was well underway by the time he finished, but Harry did not begrudge the time. He loved doing these quiet, homey things for his little family, and he didn’t care that his classmates would stare to see the great Harry Potter changing nappies and waiting on his wounded lover. This was where he belonged, and the very simplicity of it was a balm to his soul after years of war, prophecy and upheaval.

When he saw that mother and child were both drifting into sleep, he bent to kiss them. “I’m going down to supper,” he murmured to the uncaring Draco, “but I’ll be back soon. Sleep well, my dragons.”

Then he slipped out the door and back into his other life.

*** *** **

Only two days after the story in the _Daily_ Prophet, a notice went up in the Gryffindor common room, announcing that all Hogwarts students and faculty were invited to a Yule Ball to be held on Christmas Eve night. Students were encouraged to invite their families, as well.

The mood in the castle, already boisterous, rose to a fever pitch. Those few students who had planned to go home for the holidays abruptly changed their minds. Discussion in the hallways and common rooms turned from the battle of Azkaban to the Yule Ball, to dress robes and dates, and who would slip away with whom for a snog in the shrubbery. Even Hermione managed to wrench her thoughts away from N.E.W.T.s long enough to wonder why Dumbledore had broken with tradition to have a Yule Ball without the Triwizard Tournament.

She was musing on this subject as she sat in front of the common room fire one afternoon, during a free period, trying to clean ink stains out of Ron's dress robes. Ron and Harry were pretending to research the potion Snape had assigned them—purely out of spite, they were sure, since no other professor was forcing them to work—but actually discussing the latest letter from Ron’s mum. She had spent weeks nagging him to come home for the holidays and bring Harry. Now she had changed tacks and was full of plans to attend the ball.

"I suppose it's all about public relations,” Hermione said to no one in particular. "Dumbledore wants to convince people that You-Know-Who really is dead, and it’s time to celebrate.”

Ron looked up from his letter and said, flatly, “It’s got nothing to do with You-Know-Who. It’s about Fudge. This is Dumbledore’s way of declaring peace with the Ministry and the Wizengamot. They kick Fudge out and he opens Hogwarts again. Simple as that.”

“I don’t see how a ball for the students sends a message to the Ministry…”

“Not just to the Ministry. To everyone.”

Harry yawned, cutting off their argument. "It's just a stupid dance, not worth all the time you spend wondering about it." Ron snorted with laughter, and Harry shot him a grin. "Remember how awful the last one was?"

"That's because you two had the wrong dates," Hermione informed him, crisply. "Some of us enjoyed it very much."

Ron glared at her from beneath his lashes, and a trickle of evil-colored smoke began to ooze from the tip of his wand.

"So, did you send Viktor an invitation?" Harry asked with feigned innocence.

The trickle of smoke turned to a spurting fountain. " _No!_ " Ron bellowed, then he began to cough as the smoke caught at his throat.

"Of course not." Hermione banished the smoke with a flick of her wand. "Ron's taking me, and this time, he's going to dance."

"What? Who said anything about _dancing?_ "

"It is a ball, Ron. That's what people do at a ball."

"Not me."

"You don't think I'm getting all dressed up just to sit around and watch other people enjoying themselves, do you? If you don't want to dance with me, perhaps I will write to Viktor…"

"That isn't funny." Ron caught sight of the grin Harry wore and demanded, loudly, "Would you think it was such a brilliant joke, if Malfoy threatened to take some Slytherin girl to the ball?”

Harry shrugged. “Honestly? I’d just be glad he wanted to go. But since he doesn’t, I’m not terribly worried about who he _isn’t_ taking.”

“What about you?” Ron demanded.

“I’m not going without Draco.”

That simple statement shut the conversation down cold. Hermione exchanged a speaking look with Ron and bent over her task again. Ron flipped a few pages of his Potions textbook in an unenthusiastic manner. Noises from other parts of the room reached them: Ginny and Colin playing Exploding Snap, Seamus expounding on his close encounter with the Venomous Tentacula during Herbology, and a gaggle of Fifth Year Girls loudly discussing their plans for the ball. One of them, Romilda Vane, kept shooting glances at Harry over her shoulder and giggling in a way that made Hermione long to slap her.

Instead, she dropped her voice to a quiet murmur and said, “You really should get Malfoy to come to the ball with you, Harry, before people like that Romilda get the wrong idea.”

“What sort of idea?”

“That you’re… unattached.”

Harry’s brows flew up, and he almost laughed. Then he saw the real concern in Hermione’s face. “That’s mental.”

“To you and me, yes. But to them?”

“She’s right, mate,” Ron muttered, his eyes shifting to where Romilda and her friends were huddled. “We know why Ferret has gone into hiding, but no one else does. All they know is that he’s gone, vanished, like he died or ran away or got shipped off to Azkaban with his mum. And here’s the famous Harry Potter, bloody Savior of the bloody Wizarding World, looking very unattached and fanciable, just waiting for some lucky girl to snap him up and set him straight. If you know what I mean.”

Harry’s expression went from disbelieving to disgusted. “I don’t care what people like her think. All I care about is protecting Draco from their foul whispers.”

“So bring him to the ball and stop the rumors once and for all,” Hermione insisted.

“You want me to drag Malfoy out of the hospital wing and parade him in front of the whole school to stop them from whispering? When has that ever worked?”

Hermione flushed and pressed her lips together in annoyance. “It’s worth a try.”

“I’m not going to do that to him,” Harry said flatly.

“Maybe you should ask Ferret,” Ron suggested.

Harry laughed shortly. “I did. He called me an idiot.”

Ron snorted in amusement and said, sourly, “He’s got that right, anyway.”

*** *** ***

Harry stared down at the chessboard, trying to find a way out of the trap Draco had set for him but seeing no avenue of escape. As usual, he was losing in a fairly spectacular manner, because, even playing blind with only the advice of his chess pieces to guide him, Draco managed to beat him without breaking a sweat. Harry’s chess pieces did not help by shouting suggestions and insults, nor by rattling their weapons at the nearest white pieces until the opposing players charged out of their squares to give battle.

"Get back where you belong!" Harry snapped, poking at Draco’s white bishop with his wand. The black castle that had been taunting the bishop laughed nastily, earning itself a rap from Harry's wand as well. "All of you, shut up and let me think."

Draco was prowling the Room of Requirement, too restless to sit at the table and concentrate on the game. At the sound of Harry arguing with the chess pieces, he left the hearth to throw himself down on the sofa that now stood in front of the Christmas tree and called, wearily, "Let them smash each other to pieces, Potter."

"Don't you want to finish the game? You're winning."

"I'm always winning."

Harry yawned and leaned back in his chair, ignoring the chorus of protests from his chess pieces at his craven surrender of the board. "What do you want to do, then?"

"Nothing. Anything. I don't care.”

It was Christmas Eve, and the two boys were holed up in the Room of Requirement to escape the invasion of parents and guests that had flooded the castle for the Yule Ball. The mood in the castle was euphorically festive that day, as families arrived in droves to celebrate Yuletide, the defeat of Voldemort, and the cessation of hostilities between their popular heroes and the Ministry of Magic. Everyone was happy. Suits of armor sang carols in competing keys. Portraits made drunken toasts and shouted greetings to delighted visitors. Students romped through the castle and out on the grounds, where a fresh snowfall provided fodder for mass battles between Houses. A group of Slytherins had even managed to magically transport whole snowdrifts from the grounds to a dungeon passage, where they built forts at either end and pummeled each other with snowballs until they were all sopping wet and exhausted.

Harry had hung around the Gryffindor common room as long as he dared, joking with his friends and soaking up the sights and sounds of Hogwarts at Christmas. But when families started turning up, he bolted for the safety of the hospital wing, rather than suffer their stares, comments and congratulations. He had found Draco in a somber mood, in spite of the Christmas tree Hagrid had brought him and the new furniture the Room of Requirement had provided for his comfort. Even Lily’s evident delight at the decorations festooning her home did not force more than a cursory smile from him.

Now, with the evening well advanced, Lily asleep, and the music of the Yule Ball drifting up to them from the Hall below, Draco’s mood had gone from somber to sullen, and Harry was running out of ways to distract him.

A small wireless set stood on a spindly table beside the sofa. On an impulse, thinking that perhaps he could drown out the music from the ball, Harry turned it on. A familiar tune began to pour from the little speaker, and Harry grinned at the memories it called up of another Christmas in a very different place.

"How about a dance?"

"To that?" Draco glared at the wireless. "What _is_ that appalling noise?"

"Celestina Warbeck. _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_."

"How, in the name of Merlin's Blessed Balls, do you know that?"

"It's one of Mrs. Weasley's favorite songs."

"Of course it is." Pointing a crystalline finger at the source of the noise, Draco spat a jet of white light at it. Celestina Warbeck's throaty voice was replaced by a shrieking, saw-edged sound that not even the most optimistic listener would call music.

Harry jumped in alarm, whacked the wireless with his wand, and relaxed into his chair when the howling of the Weird Sisters graced his ears. "That's better."

"Not by much."

Turning a thoughtful look on the Slytherin, Harry commented, "You're in a foul mood tonight."

"Yes, I am." Draco scowled, steadfastly refusing to turn face toward Harry's wistful, green gaze. "And you'll only make it worse, if you try to jolly me out of it."

"But it's Christmas," Harry protested.

"What gave it away? All the Holiday cheer in the air?" Then, dropping his acid tone, he sighed and said, "Why can't you shut your gob and leave me to sulk?”

Harry watched his beautiful face twist with bitterness. "I thought you liked Christmas."

"This isn't exactly how I pictured myself spending the holidays." At Harry's hurt silence, he groaned and pressed his hands over his face to hide from the Gryffindor’s mournful gaze. "You know I didn't mean you, Harry."

"You miss spending Christmas with your parents."

Draco's voice hardened. "I don't want to talk about it."

Harry pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the sofa, where he held out his hand to the slumped, scowling Draco. "Come on. Dance with me."

"To that racket?"

With a chuckle, Harry drew his wand and sent yet another burst of magic toward the wireless. Celestina Warbeck filled the room with her throaty voice once more. "I know she's dreadful, but this music gives me an excuse to put my arms around you."

Draco took Harry's offered hand and, grumbling to himself, allowed the other boy to pull him to his feet. Their bodies moved naturally together, Harry's arms settled about Draco's waist, and they began to sway in time to Celestina's warbling. Harry watched the smaller boy's face closely, waiting for the inevitable softening of his features, the telltale gleam in his eyes, that would signal his surrender to Harry's charms. He never held out for long, no matter how sour his mood, and while Harry had never tried dancing with him before, he knew that nothing undermined Draco's resistance like feeling the length of Harry's body pressed to his or feeling Harry's arms close protectively about him.

It began almost at once, and before the song had ended, Draco's hands were clasping Harry's neck, buried in his hair, and Draco's lashes were falling lazily over his gleaming eyes. When a smile lifted one corner of his mouth, Harry laughed softly in triumph and bent to kiss him.

The door abruptly opened, and Draco pulled away from Harry with a muttered curse. Harry turned, an angry scowl on his face, to find Madam Pomfrey standing on the threshold. She checked for an instant, then stepped into the room.

“Sorry to barge in,” she said in a brisk tone that left no room for embarrassment. “I thought I’d take little Iffy to my sitting room for the evening. Give you two the chance to join your classmates at the ball.”

“We’re not going to the ball,” Harry said.

“Nonsense. Why would you stay shut up in this room on Christmas Eve?” Her gaze cut over to Draco, who stood with his back turned, and a shade of worry darkened it. “At least have a drink and listen to some music.”

When Draco still refused even to acknowledge her presence, she strode over to him and put a hand on his arm. “I’ve watched you stomp around all day, getting more and more surly, until it’s a wonder Potter can stand to be in the same room with you. And I’m telling you, Malfoy, as your healer, that enough is enough. Get yourself out of this room, or I’ll drag you out myself. Are we clear?”

Draco finally turned to look at her, and Harry flinched at the haunted look in his blank eyes. “Do I have to go to the ball?”

She softened under his obvious distress. “No. Go for a walk in the snow, if you prefer. Or stroll through the castle. Anything. Just get _out_ of this _room_.”

Draco nodded reluctantly, and she gave his arm a squeeze before heading to the nursery corner to collect Lily. Draco did not move until he heard the door shut behind the healer and the baby. Then he seemed to wilt. He turned to find Harry in the darkness, automatically seeking his reassurance.

Harry stepped up close to him, pulling him into his arms, and bending to murmur into his hair, “She’s right. You’re driving yourself barmy in here.”

“I’m not going into that Hall with all those people.”

“Okay.” He planted a kiss on the smaller boy’s head, then said, briskly, “But I want to dance.”

Before Draco could demand an explanation, Harry had let him go and was bustling about the room. He bundled Draco up in his winter cloak, donned his own cold-weather gear, and grabbed his broomstick. When he spelled a tall window open, letting in a rush of freezing night air, Draco started to protest.

“Harry…!”

“Trust me.”

“I don’t!”

“Too bad. Get on the broom.”

Swept along by the Gryffindor’s enthusiasm, Draco climbed onto the Firebolt and wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist. Then they were swooping out the window, into the clear, starlit darkness.

They didn’t go far. Harry flew directly over the castle and down toward the carriageway that ran up to the great, oaken doors. Remembering the last Yule Ball, Harry was not surprised to find that Dumbledore had conjured up an ornamental rose garden to fill the lawn at the front of the castle. Wandering paths, trees and bushes, statuary and rushing fountains were all lit with twinkling fairy lights. A warming spell had banished last night’s heavy snowfall, and the figures strolling along the paths or sitting on curved benches wore nothing heavier than dress robes. As he landed just outside the shimmer of the spell, Harry heard music drifting through the open windows of the Hall.

They touched down and stepped off the broom.

“What are we doing here?” Draco muttered.

“Shh.” Harry stashed the broom in the deep shadows at the base of the Ravenclaw Tower, then he took Draco’s hand and drew him close. “It’s dark out here. If we keep quiet, no one will know it’s us.”

Draco’s silence was heavy with doubt, but he allowed Harry to lead him through the barrier of the warming spell into the shelter of the garden. Together, they moved like shadows through the darkness, keeping well away from the clusters of fairy lights and the other couples enjoying the romantic spot. As they drew closer to the windows and the music, Harry felt Draco’s posture soften. He squeezed the Slytherin’s hand.

“Over here,” he murmured in Draco’s ear, guiding him to one side, out of a beam of candlelight and into the heavier darkness beside a window. When he was sure they were well hidden, he stopped and slipped his arms around the other boy. “Now I can dance with my dragon.”

Draco looped his arms up around Harry’s neck and leaned into him, murmuring, “You can’t dance to save your life, Potter.”

“Does that mean you’re turning me down?”

“No.” His body softened against Harry’s, already moving unconsciously with the music, and his liquid-silver eyes smiled up at him. “I may have to soak my feet for a week afterward, but I’ll dance with you.”

“That’s what I thought.” Harry nudged his chin up and kissed him deeply, his long, awkward limbs becoming suddenly graceful, as he lost himself in the heat of the other boy’s lips. Unconsciously, Harry found the rhythm of the music and began to move with more ease, mimicking Draco's effortless grace. They danced slowly in place, bodies clasped together, mouths locked, eyes closed, in complete accord.

Their lips heated. Their heads tilted to bring their mouths more firmly together. Their bodies swayed in delicious unison, legs interlocking, arms holding each other strongly. Draco sighed and sank his fingers into Harry’s hair, pulling him still closer. And suddenly they were dancing in a net of glittering light. Gold and silver power, woven perfectly together, flowed around their bodies, blurring the lines of their figures and binding them to each other.

Harry felt his wizarding power pour out of him to wrap Draco in its embrace and he made no attempt to stem it. He didn’t care that he was lighting up the night with his power, or that he was betraying their presence to anyone who cared to look. He would not— _could_ not—control himself when he held his beloved archangel this close in his arms.

He broke the long kiss to gaze down into the other boy’s upturned face. Draco’s eyes glowed oddly golden in the magical light, and his lips lifted in a smile of surpassing sweetness. Harry smiled back and bent to find his lips again. As their mouths touched, he felt something move in his chest. The feeling was both entirely new and wonderfully familiar. Warmth and light filled him. The presence in his chest expanded, flooding him with delight. Then he heard a word form, voicelessly, in his head.

_Harry._

_Dragon!_

_Am I where I think I am?_

_I don’t see how…_

Harry lifted his head and looked around in confusion, startled to find himself still dancing in the night garden.

 _I can see through your eyes,_ Draco said, and even with no sound to give it shape, his voice was full of wonder.

_You found your way back. I’m so glad, Draco._

_Me, too._ There was a pause, then the non-voice said, wistfully, _I can’t stay._

_No wait! Don’t go!_

_I’ll be back._ A smile crept into his non-voice. _Now that I know the way._

Loving fingers brushed his mind as they passed, a goodbye caress, then Draco was gone, back in his own body, and dancing with Harry in a net of silver-gilt power. Harry felt a stab of disappointment, followed almost instantly by a deep, welling happiness. Draco had found his way back. Even without the Blood Link, there was a bridge between them. A bond no magic could break.

In an overflowing of delight, he scooped Draco up in his arms, lifting his feet from the grass to kiss him. But even as their mouths met, they heard voices approaching—giggling, whispering voices—and they broke apart. Both boys turned toward the voices, and in the fading light of their wizarding power, their faces were clearly visible.

The laughter broke off, then a girl tittered. “Oh, it’s you two,” she said nastily, and Harry recognized the Gryffindor Fifth Year who had shot him such hopeless, come-hither looks in the common room. Romilda Vane.

“Yeah, it’s us,” he replied, coldly, “got a problem with that?”

Romilda turned a disdainful shoulder and drew her companions away with a haughty, “Let’s find someplace less crowded to sit.”

Harry and Draco waited, unmoving, till the girls had disappeared into the darkness. Then Harry caught Draco’s hand and pulled him swiftly toward the outer edge of the garden. “Come on. In two minutes, it’ll be all over the Hall that we’re out here.”

Together, they hurried to where Harry had stashed his broom, and two minutes later, just as the inevitable rumors were beginning to fly around the Great Hall, they were back in the Room of Requirement. Harry spelled the window shut, stoked up the fire with his wand, and propped his broom in the corner. Then he turned to find Draco, who was simply standing in the middle of the room, following his movements with an unsettling look in his eyes. Harry reached to unfasten his cloak.

“You should get in bed where it’s warm.”

“Harry.” He caught the Gryffindor’s hands, halting his move to open his robe. “What happened out there…”

“Yeah?”

“Did I imagine it?”

“Not unless we both had the same hallucination.”

Harry guided him over to the bed and sat beside him on the edge of the mattress. Draco reached out to rest his adamant hand in the center of Harry’s chest. It was cold, even through the layers of his clothing, but Harry was used to that and didn’t mind. He felt a tingle of power in the touch.

“I didn’t even have to try,” he whispered. “I just… thought about how good it felt to be part of you, and then I was.”

“But how? Without the Blood Link, how could you do that?”

He shook his gleaming head, and Harry sensed that this was one of those moments when he desperately wanted to cry but couldn’t. After years of being a Malfoy, when he wouldn’t admit to having tears, now he wanted them and they were gone.

“There’s something else.” His voice dropped to a whisper nearly as soundless as the voice Harry had heard in his head. “I found it in here.” His hand moved, his finger now touching Harry’s breastbone.

“A part of you,” Harry said softly.

Draco’s eyes flew to his face, full of fear and longing. “How did you know?”

“I felt it, too. It’s still there.”

Draco nodded and swallowed painfully. “A piece of me that never left. I think that’s how I did it. That missing piece of me is the link between us. And when I’m there, I feel…” He swallowed again. “Whole.”

“Draco.” Harry’s hands lifted to cradle his head. “Do you know what this means?”

“That you’re carrying a piece of me, of my… self, my soul, around inside you.”

“It means that you couldn’t really leave me, not when they cut the link, not tonight, and not ever.”

Draco let the air out of his lungs in a rush and closed his eyes. When he tried to speak again, his lips were trembling. “Are you… okay with that, Harry?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I didn’t ask you. I just did it. Now you’re… you’re tied to me…”

Harry let out a sudden, tearful laugh and pulled Draco into a furious kiss. “Oh, you incredible git!” he cried against the other boy’s lips. “I was never happier about anything _in my life!_ ”

Draco tried to laugh, but it turned into a dry sob, and he leaned harder into the kiss. Harry bore him back onto the bed and reached once more for the fastenings of his robe. This time, Draco only sighed his approval. Harry made short work of his robe, scarf and shoes, only slowing down and breaking the long kiss when he found his hands on the buttons of Draco’s shirt. Then he came back to a sense of what he was doing and hesitated.

Lifting his head, he fixed smoldering eyes on his lover’s face and said, roughly, “Is it okay?”

Draco touched his face with adamant fingertips, finding his mouth and drawing it down to meet his own. “Do it,” he breathed, as their lips met again.

Harry began to undress him, savoring the chance to touch every part of him, but still he kept himself firmly in check. He had not touched Draco, except to comfort or support him, since his capture by Voldemort. They kissed, they held each other, they spoke of desire, but they didn’t act on it. And now, after months of celibacy—forced on them by Draco’s weakness and pain, the presence of a newborn baby, and the constant attendance of a parade of well-meaning nurses—they were both feeling distinctly skittish. It was almost as if they’d been transported back to their first night on the North Tower, when their passion was new and frightening.

Draco shivered, half in nervousness, half in anticipation, when Harry’s hands opened his shirt and found the bare skin beneath. Strong, calloused fingers stroked his ribs, his back, then hesitated when they touched the wicked scar that slashed across his belly.

“Are you sure?” he whispered in Draco’s ear. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

Harry’s hands moved to his belt. “It’s been so long,” he groaned.

“So shag me, already.”

He paused again and fixed gleaming eyes on the other boy. “Go through the link again. Back into my head.”

“Not yet.” Draco purred, “I want to feel the first one from inside my own body.”

“How about the second one? And the third and fourth and…”

“Shut up and shag me, you prat.”

Laughing softly under his breath, Harry kissed him rapturously and did as he was told.

*** *** ***

Christmas morning dawned clear and cold, with a fresh layer of snow frosting the castle in sparkling white. Harry awoke to a crying baby, a sleepy Draco, and a pile of presents on the foot of the bed. He bounded out from under the blankets, trying not to think about what Madam Pomfrey must have seen when she brought Lily back last night, to scramble into his clothes with extreme haste. He had forgotten how cold this castle could be when he slept in his skin, and how much he enjoyed the rush to protect himself from the icy touch of the air. It woke him up and got his blood circulating.

Draco did not share his enthusiasm. He burrowed down in the bedclothes and refused to get out until the fire was stoked up and the room a livable temperature. Harry just laughed, kissed him, and bustled over to the nursery to collect the howling Lily. He brought her to the bed and tucked her down in the blankets next to Draco. Then he used a spell to produce a bottle of milk. In moment’s, Lily was slurping happily and Draco’s mood was softening into something like civility.

His family taken care of, Harry turned his attention to the pile of presents. It contained the usual offerings from Ron, Hermione, Hagrid and Mrs. Weasley. Draco was surprised to find gifts for himself among the ones for Harry and Lily. These included a book that read itself, a quill that took dictation, something called Shrieking Ink that he didn’t dare open to investigate, a plant that came with a warning to keep the baby’s fingers away from it, and an amulet made of Merlin-knew-what, guaranteed to ward off wrackspurts.

Both boys enjoyed themselves hugely, until Harry found a large, squishy package labeled: For Miss Potter from the Weasleys. He turned it over and over, a worried frown on his face. “I know the Weasleys were here for the ball. I probably should have said hello.”

“You can say hello later today.”

“I can’t believe Mrs. Weasley made a sweater for me this year, after everything that’s happened. I thought she would disown me.”

“Disown Perfect Bloody Potter? Not bloody likely. Besides, that one’s for Iffy, not for you.”

“Still… I feel really bad.”

“So open the present, put on your Weasley sweater, and go thank her.”

“If she’s still here. They probably went back to the Burrow last night.”

“Open the present, Harry. Unless you think it’s going to explode or poison her,” he added with a smirk.

“She wouldn’t do that to my daughter.”

“Iffy’s my daughter, too, remember.”

“It’s probably something very nice…”

“With Anti-Malfoy spells woven into it…”

“Oh, bother.”

Harry ripped off the paper, letting a pile of soft, sapphire blue fabric tumbled onto the bed. It was clearly one of Mrs. Weasley’s knitting projects, but not a sweater. It was much too large for that. Catching it by one edge, he held it up.

“Well?” Draco prompted. “Is it ghastly?”

“No, actually, it’s beautiful. It’s a blanket, blue with a silver L in… Oh, _no!_ ”

“What?” Draco demanded. “What is it?!”

“It’s not an L, it’s an I! For _Iffy!_ ”

Draco stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing and crumpled over on the bed, clutching his sides, while Harry glared at him in disgust.

“Now we’ll _never_ get anyone to call her Lily!”

“Give it up, Harry,” Draco gasped, between guffaws, “you’ll never win.”

“This is all Ron’s fault!”

“You call her Iffy half the time, yourself!”

“Fine. Great. Brand our daughter as a freak for the rest of her born days!”

“She’s already a Potter and a Malfoy! How much worse can it get?”

Harry stared glumly at the blanket and ran his hands over the smooth, rich surface. It was a beautiful thing, Mrs. Weasley’s best work, with the motherly witch’s affection plain in every stitch. And looking at it, Harry knew that it was meant as a peace offering.

A smile began to twitch at his mouth. Then he looked over at Draco, still lying collapsed on the bed, laughing, with Lily on her stomach beside him. She lifted herself up on her hands and fixed shining, winter eyes on her adored father. A beaming smile lit her face.

“Oh, all right.” He scooped her up to wrap her in the lovely blanket. It matched her coloring perfectly, and the silver I lay proudly along her back like a badge of honor. “Here you are, Iffy Potter Malfoy, your very first Weasley Sweater!”

 

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, Harry's a Horcrux again (though he doesn't know that's what it's called). In my original version of this story, Draco gave him ALL his magic and couldn't get it back. I decided that was too harsh and chose, instead, to give Harry a piece of him to carry with him forever.


	15. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More healing, this time with the Weasleys. Because you know Harry can't do without the Weasleys.

******_The Burrow, Summer_ **

The air was cool and soft, full of the sweet smells of the countryside in summer and the rustling of gnomes in the bushes. Draco stood alone amidst this riot of unmown lawn and untrimmed shrubbery, feeling utterly lost and out of place. He kept his arms wrapped close about his body—not from cold, but from defensiveness—and his eyes turned up to the stars he knew were there but could not see, while his mind dragged him inexorably back to their arrival at the Burrow earlier that day.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had tried so hard to be pleasant and welcoming. They had ushered Harry and Draco into the house, gushed over Lily, told them countless times how glad they were to have them there, and told them to make the house their own. They wanted to show Harry that they were willing to let bygones be bygones. They wanted to absorb Lily into their vast, raucous, loving hoard of a family, make her one of their own as they had Harry. And they would have done the same for Draco, if he had given them half a chance. Instead, he had stood there as if he’d been mummified, growing more and more distant, more and more withdrawn, with every hand he shook and every word he muttered.

After an endless, agonizing day of trying to hide his discomfort behind an ever-thickening wall of reserve, he had finally fled to the garden, where he stood, shivering and alone, staring up at the stars he missed so dreadfully and aching with a deep, festering pain that he devoutly hoped no one could see.

Feet rustled in the grass behind him. Draco stiffened. Then he recognized the presence at his back and the arms that came around him. He softened into his lover’s welcome embrace, leaning back against his body, and angled his head closer to Harry’s. He heard the taller boy breathing in the darkness, sensed him looking up at the stars.

“It’s amazing. Even the stars look brighter.” Harry paused, then asked still more softly, “Would you like to see them?”

Gratitude tightened Draco’s throat. “Yes.”

Almost instantly, Draco felt the familiar warmth of Harry’s wizarding power all around him. He closed his eyes, let the light fill him. Then, with an ease that should have frightened him, he slipped out of his own mind into the current of power, following it through the fragile cages of bone that were their physical bodies, to find the source of all that magnificent golden fire. And there, held close in the blaze of heat and passion and power that was Harry Potter, he found the fragment of himself that had never left him. With a flare of happiness that never faded, no matter how many times he did this, Draco slipped into the place held ready for him, and he was home.

Harry opened his eyes, and Draco gasped in wonder. The stars blazed above them, like huge, multi-colored gems spilled on midnight velvet. They looked as if they were about to drop, flaming, to the grass, so close did they appear. And in the incredibly clear, dry air, they appeared to move.

“They’re dancing,” Draco breathed.

“Maybe they’re celebrating with us.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“The least they can do is put on a show for you, after they dragged you into a war.”

“Don’t be a prat.” He stared through Harry’s eyes for another minute, mesmerized, then he murmured reverently, “Blimey!”

Harry laughed outright at that and dropped his gaze from the jeweled sky to his lover’s face. “You’ve been spending way too much time with Ron.”

Draco laughed with him and lifted his chin, inviting a kiss. As Harry obliged, and their lips met, Draco quietly slipped back into himself. Harry kept the power flowing between them for another few seconds, then that, too, faded, and they reluctantly broke apart.

“Thank you,” Draco said, very quietly.

Harry just tightened his arms around Draco’s slight body and pressed another kiss to his temple. Draco settled back against him, for this brief moment untroubled by the darkness that closed in around him again.

After a minute or two of companionable silence, Harry said, “Mr. Weasley was asking after you.”

“Hoping I’d run for it?”

“Worried that you’d drown yourself in the pond.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“You know it’s torture for them to have me here.”

Harry’s arms tightened around him. “I’m sorry. I know you hate it here, but the Weasleys are like my family. I can’t avoid them forever.”

“I don’t expect you to avoid them. And I don't hate it here.” He sighed and leaned into Harry, his voice suddenly weary. "The Weasleys are very nice. They try very hard. It's just that… I can’t be what you all want me to be.”

“What’s that?”

“Part of the family.”

“Dragon,” Harry said softly. Catching the Slytherin by the shoulders, he turned him around and looped his arms about his waist. Their bodies met and settled perfectly together. Harry bent to brush Draco’s lips with his. “You _are_ my family.”

Draco slipped his hands up behind Harry’s neck and pulled him down into a deeper kiss. They clung together for a long minute, letting warmth and passion and power surge between them, until they had both reached a state of painful excitement.

Then Harry broke the kiss and asked, "You about ready to go inside?" Draco shook his head. "There are places in that pile where we can be by ourselves, you know, and I'd really like to have you to myself. For the whole night, if we can manage it.”

“Harry…”

“What is it? You’re not going to suggest drowning yourself again, are you?”

“No. But you aren’t going to like what I say.”

“Then don’t say it. We’re on holiday, you prat. Enjoy it.”

“I can’t.” Draco frowned, but he did not let go of Harry or step away from him, so Harry obligingly kept his arms securely around him. “Being here with the Weasleys, with people from your life outside of Hogwarts, has made something very clear to me.”

“In less than a day?”

“In the first five minutes. You and I have been living in a bubble, or in our own version of the Closed Ward, and we can’t keep doing it. We have to step back into the real world eventually.”

“I agree.”

“But the real world wants nothing to do with me, at least, not with me and you together.”

“This is nothing new, Draco. Even in our bubble, we’ve had to deal with that.”

“It’s worse out here, especially when it’s people you love. The Weasleys mean well, but I can almost hear them flinch every time I speak, and honestly, I’m glad I can’t see their faces most of the time.”

“It’s not that bad…”

“It is.”

“It’ll get better, I promise. The Weasleys will learn to love you, and the rest of the wizarding world will get used to us being together. It’ll be easier, now that the war is over and I don’t have to play the hero for them anymore.”

“You’ll never stop being their hero, and they’ll never accept the Death Eater’s brat who murdered his own father, seduced The Boy Who Lived, and bore Voldemort’s child! Face it, Harry. If you stay with me, you’ll either spend the rest of your life fighting my battles or join me as an outcast.”

“ _If_ I stay with you? You’re not seriously suggesting that we break it off and go our separate ways, are you? Because we both know that isn’t happening!”

“I know that I never want to be apart from you, that I feel like half a person when I am. I know I… I have belonged with you since the first moment I laid eyes on you in that robe shop in Diagon Alley. I know that the thought of living without you tears…” He broke off to take a sobbing breath. “…tears at me like claws in my flesh…”

“Don’t, Dragon.” Harry guided Draco’s head down to his shoulder and petted the hair at his neck, whispering, “Don’t think about it.”

Draco sighed and pressed his head more firmly into Harry’s shoulder. “I don’t think I can live apart from you,” he whispered, “but I can’t live as a shadow on the edge of your world, either.”

“You won’t have to. You’ll live at the very center of my world, where you belong, and you’ll be supremely, transcendently happy.”

“Because you decree it?”

“Hey, I’m Perfect Bloody Potter, and I always get what I want. Just ask Crabbe.”

"You're a sentimental prat. And a bloody great fool, if you really believe that."

"I'm an optimist."

"I'm too smart to be one of those."

"You're a stubborn git without two brain cells to rub together."

All of this was said in a low, warm tone, while Draco lay against Harry's shoulder and Harry held him with all the tenderness he had in him. The stroking of Harry's hand on his back made Draco smile to himself.

"I love you, too," he whispered into Harry's shirt.

"I know you do," Harry whispered back.

"Will you promise me something, Harry?"

"Name it.”

“If it gets to be too much for you… living as a pariah… and you want out, you’ll tell me? You won’t try to hide it from me, just to spare my feelings? You’ll take our daughter and go, back into the wizarding world, where you can both be happy?”

Draco could hear the smile in Harry’s voice when he murmured, "I promise."

"I have your word?"

"You have my word. And you _know_ I keep my word, Malfoy."

"Thank you."

"Don't bother to thank me. That's one promise that's dead easy to make, because there's no way I'm ever going to leave you. Not 'til I'm dead, and probably not even then."

"You really are a sentimental prat."

"Whatever you say, my dear, old Malfoy-puffer fish. Now, can we go inside and snuggle up together?”

“You go. I’ll stay out here for a while.”

“I can stay with you, if you want.”

Draco gazed up at him, smiling fondly, and shook his head. “I need a bit of quiet.”

“Okay.” Harry loosened his hold on him and stepped back. “I'll go inside and find out where Mrs. Weasley has stashed us for the night."

"At opposite ends of the house, most likely.”

"Maybe, but I'll have something to say about that.”

Draco listened to Harry’s footsteps swishing in the grass, heading toward the house. He waited until he heard the back door close, then he shivered slightly and turned away—away from the warmth he had no part of, the house full of voices and laughter and family squabbles, the boy who wanted so desperately to make him a part of that warmth because he could not bear to choose between his adopted family and his lover.

This, more than anything, made the atmosphere of the Burrow unbearable to him. He had no desire to force such a choice on Harry, but he could not become a part of that noisy, happy brood, any more than he could give himself red hair and freckles. He was Draco Malfoy, the enemy, an alien in their midst, and no amount of wishing on Harry's part would change that. The more the Weasleys loved and supported Harry, the farther outside their circle Draco was pushed. And the frustration of it was that Draco didn't blame them.

He saw how intensely Harry craved the kind of closeness the Weasleys had, how happy he was in this mad, ramshackle, chaotic place, and he understood why the Weasleys urged him to stay. They loved Harry—well, that was one thing they had in common with Draco Malfoy—and they wanted him to be happy. He was happy in the Burrow. He felt like one of the family. Why wouldn't they encourage him to stay? Treat him like a son? Make a fuss over him? If Draco were in Mrs. Weasley's place, he'd do the same. He'd do anything to make Harry happy. Anything. But here he was, souring his happiness, forcing him to choose, pulling him away from people who loved him. And he had no choice, because Harry was right. Living apart was simply impossible.

The door banged, making Draco start. He thought it must be Harry coming to drag him back inside, but Harry didn't usually march about in that determined—and decidedly loud—fashion. Then he heard a sharp, imperious wail, and he turned instinctively toward the sound. His hands came up, reaching for his crying daughter.

“There, now, my dear,” Mrs. Weasley said matter-of-factly, as she thrust the squirming, fussing baby into his hands. “You see? I told you we’d find him.”

“What’s all this noise about?” Draco asked softly, gathering Iffy against his chest and lifting his flesh-and-blood hand to cradle her head.

“Too much excitement and not enough of her mum,” Mrs. Weasley answered briskly.

Draco bent to drop a kiss on Iffy’s head to hide his reaction. She was wearing a fuzzy hat—probably one of Granger’s knitting efforts—that tickled his face, and he smiled into it. He began to sway gently, holding the little body close, while contentment seeped through him and unknotted the muscles that had been tensed for so many hours. Just taking her in his arms made him feel infinitely better. The baby gave one more hiccuping cry, then sighed and stuffed a fist into her mouth, burrowing happily into his shoulder.

He had almost forgotten Mrs. Weasley’s presence, so glad was he simply to hold his daughter again, when her voice came to him out of the darkness. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile since you set foot in my house.”

His eyes came up in surprise.

“I was beginning to wonder if you knew how to do anything but sulk.”

Draco flushed slightly and looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“The way I’ve been acting. I don’t mean to be… you know…”

“A Malfoy?” His flush deepened under her sharp, knowing gaze. “You can’t help that, though it would be easier on all of us if you didn’t look quite so much like your father.”

Suddenly, she seemed to take pity on him, patting his arm in a motherly way and dropping her sardonic tone. “Well, you look a good deal less like him when you’re holding that lovely child.”

Draco almost smiled at that. “I don’t think my father ever held a child in his life.”

“Oh, surely he did, once upon a time, when you were too young to remember it.”

He just shook his head, not ready to share his childhood memories with this comparative stranger, no matter how wise and motherly she seemed. Then it occurred to him that he was shutting down her friendly overtures—acting like a Malfoy again—and he forced himself to speak.

His words were hesitant, but his voice was soft in the way that only having Iffy in his arms could make it when he murmured, “I don’t know if it’s the same for women, who have babies the proper way, but I feel like she’s actually a part of my body.”

“I know that feeling very well.”

Draco drew courage from her warm tone. “I thought it would go away as I got used to her being, well, separate from me, but it’s been eight months and I still feel it. When she isn’t with me, I look around for her, thinking I can hear her. And when I put her down, I suddenly feel all wrong and I have to pick her up again.”

“All mothers feel that, but I expect it’s even stronger for you, considering how much of you went into Iffy. In a very real way, she is a part of your body.” Mrs. Weasley watched him for another moment, then said, quite unexpectedly, “You keep far too much bottled up inside, young man. It’s not good for you.”

"That's what Malfoys do," he replied, simply.

"Do you still think of yourself as a Malfoy?"

Draco hesitated, caught off guard once more by her directness, then slowly shook his head.

"What then? A Potter?" Another negative shake. "What do you _want_ to be?"

Draco clasped Iffy’s head and rested his cheek on it, trying to conceal his expression from her, but she caught his chin in one surprisingly strong hand and tilted his head up. He had no tears to shed, but the ache of longing in him was all the more terrible for their lack, and he had no doubt that she could see it in his face. This terrifying woman saw everything.

"Tell me."

"I want to belong someplace," he whispered through cold, white lips.

Her tone was surprised. "But you do."

"Where?"

"With Harry."

"You don't believe that." He wrenched his head out of her clasp and turned away, his face going rigid. "You and Mr. Weasley and every other decent wizard in the world, you all want me as far away from Harry as you can get me!"

"What does that matter? Do you care what Arthur and I want?"

"Harry does."

"Not enough to send you packing.” When Draco just stared stubbornly off into the darkness, avoiding her gaze, she went on inexorably, “I’ll remind you that Harry chose you over everyone else in his life, and that is no small thing. What do you think he'd do, if Arthur and I threw you out of our home? Told you to pack your bags and clear off?"

Draco did not bother to answer, taking it for a rhetorical question, but Mrs. Weasley waited expectantly until he shrugged and muttered, "Go with me."

“Absolutely, but not until he'd given us a piece of his mind and, quite likely, cut us out of his life."

"It shouldn't be like that."

"No, it shouldn't. But you, of all people, must know by now that the world isn't fair."

"Not even for Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived?"

"Not even for Harry."

"Hasn't he earned a little fairness, by now?"

"Certainly he has, but that doesn't mean he gets it. You know, you'd both be a lot happier, if you'd quite worrying about what _ought_ to be and start enjoying what _is_. You and Harry risked your lives to free us from You-Know-Who. You won. You bought our freedom. And now you're free, as well, so stop acting as though you're still living under a cloud of doom!"

“I… I’m not quite sure how to do that."

“I was afraid of that." Her voice roughened with something that might, in another person, have been affection. "My advice to you, young man, is that you march yourself into the house, go find Harry, and have him explain it to you. It's obvious to me that he's the only person on this earth who can talk sense into you, infernally stubborn little Malfoy that you are!"

Draco continued to stare at nothing, his cheeks once more burning. "You don't want a Malfoy in your house."

"I invited you in, didn't I? And I welcomed you as graciously as I knew how, when you boys arrived."

"For Harry's sake."

"True enough, but we have to start somewhere. You're here for Harry's sake, you're _welcome_ here for Harry's sake, and as far as I'm concerned, you're a member of my family for Harry's sake. No Weasley—however he got to be one—is ever turned away from my door."

Draco turned his head, very slowly, to fix his empty gaze on her. "Do you mean it?"

"I do." Her voice warmed, and he had a sudden image of her brown eyes twinkling fondly at him. She started toward the house, her hand on Draco’s arm drawing him after her, and he fell into step beside her without thinking. “Now, you're going to discover that a big family is not always a blessing, and there are members of this one who will not take kindly to having you as a sibling."

"I know _that_."

"In fact, I sent some of them away for a few days, to give you and Harry some breathing space and to… delay the inevitable. Our house is not usually this quiet."

" _Quiet?!_ " Draco squeaked.

"Percy and the twins are staying in London, until I send for them. Of course, Charlie isn't usually here, but he's far and away the quietest of my children. And you and Bill are already friends."

“We were until he held Harry’s birthday present hostage. Does he still wear that dragon-tooth earring?”

She sighed wearily. “Unfortunately, yes. And the long hair. It’s really a shame that a handsome man like Bill makes a such spectacle of himself.”

"I don't know,” Draco ventured, "I think it's kind of cool."

Mrs. Weasley snorted. “Yes, well, you could use a proper haircut, yourself. But you’re polite enough,” she added brightly, “and don’t seem inclined to bewitch Muggle objects or make the furniture explode! Maybe your good manners will rub off on Fred and George.”

Draco grimaced. "I spent five years at Hogwarts with those two, and the only thing that ever rubbed off on any of us was the occasional Bludger to the face."

She sighed again. "I was afraid of that. Well, you and Harry will have some time to get used to the rest of us, before I set the twins loose on you. I told them they were not to come anywhere near the Burrow until I sent for them! After all, you've barely had time to realize that the war is over, much less to adjust to losing your sight, having a baby, or suddenly acquiring a family full of loud, opinionated redheads. The last thing you need is the Terrible Twins coming down on you like an Unforgivable Curse."

They had reached the kitchen—overly warm and full of the scents of food cooking—and Draco now noticed that the house was unusually quiet. Mrs. Weasley seemed to have cleared out the crowd before she lured Draco back inside.

"Go on upstairs and get some sleep," She advised, in a kindly way. “I’ll look after Iffy for the night, if you like. Give you and Harry a chance to relax. Maybe have a nice lie-in tomorrow.”

At Draco’s startled look, she chuckled. “Did you think I’d lock you in the attic with the ghoul? Don’t be silly. Give me the baby and take yourself off to bed.”

As Draco handed her the dozing Iffy, he remarked with a flash of humor, “You didn’t really need me to quiet her down before, did you?”

“Heavens, no! After raising seven of my own, I think I can handle this sweet, little mite. But when I saw Harry come in alone, I knew I needed to take drastic measures, or you’d end up spending the night in the chicken coop.”

Draco actually laughed, and Mrs. Weasley patted his cheek.

“I put you in Fred and George’s room. It’s comfortable enough, if you watch out for the joke wands and exploding sweets. Hurry along, now, before Harry gets restless and comes looking for you.”

"Umm…"

"What is it, dear?"

Draco looked helplessly around him. "How do I find it?"

“Mercy! I forgot. You need a map to find your way around this warren the first few times inside it.” Tucking Iffy into the crook of one elbow and Draco’s hand into the other, she turned for the stairs. “This way."

She led him up two flights of stairs, along an uneven hallway, then up another full flight. At the top of the steps, she stopped in front of a door.

“Here it is, first door on your right, when you’re coming up from the kitchen. The next one down is Percy’s but he keeps it locked while he’s in London, so you don’t have to worry about stumbling into it by mistake. And you can always tell this one by the burns and scratches around the latch plate.”

Draco obediently ran his free hand over the door, finding the latch and feeling the deep gouges in the wood. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."

"Good night, my dear, and don’t worry about Iffy. Of course, if you start missing her, just send Harry to fetch her. He knows his way around, by now.”

She patted his arm once more and started back down the stairs. Draco waited until her footsteps had faded off into the rabbit warren of the house, then he opened the door and slipped into the room. Shutting the door, he stood with his back pressed to the scarred wood and took a moment to get his bearings. He heard a soft rustling from some distance away. In his mind’s eye, he saw Harry coming reluctantly awake, pushing back a blanket, and sitting up.

Then, exactly on cue, a sleepy voice called, “Draco?” More rustling, and bare feet struck the floor. “Wait there. This room is a minefield.”

The tread of bare feet approached him, weaving a crooked path around unknown obstacles, and came to a stop directly in front of him. He gazed up at Harry, finding him by the sound of his breathing, and smiled uncertainly. In answer, Harry slipped his hand into his long hair and kissed him lightly.

“Your lips are cold.”

“All of me is cold.”

“Only you could be this cold in the English countryside in the middle of Summer. Come get in bed. I’ll thaw you out.” He turned and waited for Draco to rest a hand on his shoulder. Then he began retracing his steps. “Where’s Lily?”

“Mrs. Weasley said she’d look after her. Give us some time alone.”

The surprise in his voice was unmistakeable. “Seriously? I suppose she can’t resist a baby—any baby.”

They reached the bed—Draco felt the mattress against his knees—and Harry hurried to climb back under the covers. Draco sat down and began pulling off his cloak, robe and boots. It took him a few minutes, clumsy as his right hand was, but he struggled with the clasps and laces himself, rather than ask Harry for help with these simple outer layers.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, after a moment of silence.

Draco nodded and tugged at his cloak in annoyance.

"Mrs. Weasley insisted on going to fetch you, and I was afraid… I mean…"

"She didn't do anything. I swear. We, umm, we actually had a good talk."

"Yeah?" Draco heard the relief in his voice and felt a twinge of guilt. "I hoped, when she gave us this room and spelled the beds together, that she had decided to give you a chance."

"It's worse than that," Draco said, soberly. "She adopted me."

"Really? You're a Weasley, now?"

"It's more like, you're a Weasley and I'm one by association."

Harry chuckled. "You have in-laws."

"So do you," Draco retorted. "Want to visit them, next?"

"For you, I'd even be in the same room with your mother.”

“Well, you won’t have to prove it, because she’s in Azkaban, and I’m not going back there,” he dropped his robe on the floor and rolled beneath the blankets, adding sourly, “even for my mother.”

The bed was unexpectedly large and deliciously warm in a way that only Harry could make it. Draco snuggled deeper into the blankets, moving up tightly against the other boy, who lay propped on one elbow and hip, gazing down at him.

“I’m sorry, Dragon. I shouldn’t have brought her up.”

“Why? It’s a fact. My mother is in prison and I may never see her again.”

“Dumbledore is doing what he can to get her out.”

“And if he does?” Draco twisted around to face Harry and reached out to touch his face with crystalline fingers, locating him more precisely in the darkness. “Would you really be in the same room with her?”

“In a heartbeat, if that’s what you wanted.”

“She’s the only family I’ve got. Except for Auntie Genie…”

“Who’s always welcome, as far as I’m concerned.”

“…and Sirius Black, who it turns out is my second cousin, or first cousin once removed, or second uncle twice removed from the Family Tree for being a traitor, or something like that."

"Wicked. We're related."

"Sort of like I'm related to the Weasleys."

"Yeah." Harry chuckled softly and bent down to tease him with a light, playful kiss. "But if I catch you treating any of the Weasleys the way you treat me…"

"What? I'm not allowed to be rude to my own family?"

"Shut up, Malfoy.”

Draco shut up, and for several minutes, he had no thought for anything but the boy exploring him with his hands and caressing him with his mouth. Harry was in a gentle mood, undressing him slowly and carefully in spite of his own obvious desire, and Draco was grateful for it. He didn't think he could cope with a wild, demanding, inventive Harry tonight. But this was perfect—slow and sweet and infinitely loving. When Harry finally tossed away the last piece of clothing and settled his body half atop Draco’s, the Slytherin knew exactly what expression he wore. He could picture his lover’s face, even if he couldn’t see it, and he smiled at the enticing image—Harry with his hair standing up every which way, his lips swollen and reddened, his myopic eyes glowing, equal parts hunger and devotion lighting his face; Harry the way he always looked, just before he pounced.

Harry took Draco’s right hand in his own, lifted it to his lips, and kissed his fingertips before pressing it to his chest. “Go on,” he whispered.

Draco closed his eyes in anticipation. He felt the familiar tingle of power, as Harry spread his golden net of light over him. He knew the moment the flow of magic was strong enough and, easy as breathing, he slipped out of himself and into his love.

Then he was home, feeling the beat of Harry’s heart, hearing the rush of blood through his veins, savoring the passion in his body. When Harry opened his eyes, Draco could see his own face, blurry and dim in the unlit room, gazing up at him with blind, adoring eyes. He had long since given up his embarrassment at seeing himself this way and accepted that the boy lying in the bed with his lover was not the Draco Malfoy he, Draco, knew, but the one Harry saw, the one Harry loved. And when he shared this vision, he could almost believe that he was that person—inhumanly beautiful and unimaginably precious.

Draco smiled, feeling and seeing his lips move at the same time, and slipped his adamant hand behind Harry’s head to pull it closer. _I love you, Harry Potter._

 _I love you, Draco Malfoy._ Then Harry's mouth was on his mouth and Harry's hands were on his body, and Harry's soul was wrapped around his in a perfect embrace.

* * *

They lay together, Harry's body curved protectively behind Draco's, and listened to the ghoul moaning and sobbing in the attic. Draco smiled at the sound and burrowed deeper into the shelter of Harry's arms. He was safe, he was wanted, he was loved and he was happy. Genuinely happy. The ghoul's vocal misery only served to remind him just how happy he was and, for that, he was grateful for the creature's desolate wailing.

Harry, as usual, seemed to know what he was thinking. "Feeling better?" he murmured into the tumble of hair over Draco's ear.

Draco twisted onto his back without breaking the comforting circle of Harry's arms and turned his empty gaze on him. "I was thinking."

"'Bout what?"

"It's okay if you want to stay here for a while. I don’t mind.”

"Really? Do you really mean it?" Draco nodded, and Harry crowed with triumph. Dropping a light, loving kiss on Draco's mouth, he murmured, "My dragon. My beautiful, beautiful dragon…"

“Prat," Draco murmured fondly.

Harry broke off his nibbling and teasing to look down at Draco. “Did you mean it about Mrs. Weasley keeping Lily all night?”

“That’s what she said.”

“And you’re okay with that? A whole night without her?”

“Maybe. If you distract me.”

“I can do that,” Harry breathed, bending down to caress Draco’s mouth with his. “I’ll be happy to do that, Dragon.” He brushed his lips again, then murmured brokenly, between brief, hungry kisses, “My dragon… My archangel… My dearest, darling, magical love."

Draco wanted to tell him that he was being a prat, that he had crossed the line into idiocy and ought to be ashamed of himself, that such foolishness was beneath him, Draco Malfoy, hero of the wizarding world, but instead, he smiled and looped his arms around Harry's neck, silencing him by pulling him into a long, deep, searing kiss that left no room or breath for words. After that, he completely forgot about Harry's pet names, until they were drifting into warm, exhausted sleep and he heard a beloved voice whisper in his ear,

"Sleep well, Dragon."

*** *** ***

Harry did not want to wake up. He was deeply and happily asleep, lying in the middle of the biggest bed he had ever enjoyed, with blankets pulled up to his chin and Draco wrapped around him, pirating his heat, in the way he loved best. He was beyond comfortable. He was in his own private heaven, and he didn't want to leave. But the sound of muttering voices and furtive footsteps could not be ignored.

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled himself into consciousness and cracked open his eyes. The room was full of morning light, filtered through curtains, and the smell of breakfast cooking. He barely had time to register the fact that it must be late, before he saw the door open and one of the Weasley twins slip inside. The other followed immediately, and the first one whispered loudly,

"Not even locked. How do you like that?"

"You'd think we could trust our own mum," the second twin answered.

Harry sat up abruptly, tumbling Draco's inert body to the bed and letting the covers slip down around his waist.

The first twin let out a yelp and dropped the shoes he was carrying. The second one gaped at Harry for a moment, then spluttered, "Bloody Hell!"

"Hallo, George," Harry said, yawning. "Hallo, Fred."

"Hallo, yourself! _What_ are you doing in our… our _beds?!_ "

"Blimey! What's mum done to our beds?"

"You weren't supposed to be here," Harry explained, sheepishly.

"That doesn't give her the right to turn our room into…"

At that moment, Draco pushed himself up on his elbows and blinked at the twins, his eyes bleared with sleep, his face looking impossibly young and vulnerable in its unguarded state.

The twins stared at him in shock, both wearing identical expressions of horror, then blurted out in unison, " _Bloody Hell!_ " and reached for their wands.

Harry reacted instinctively, grabbing his own wand from where it always lay under his pillow and shifting his body in front of Draco's. "Don't try it!"

The twins froze, hands halfway to their robes, and gaped in disbelief at Harry's rock-steady wand.

George raised his hands, slowly. "Take it easy, Harry."

Fred nodded his agreement and chimed in, "We only want to get rid of the vermin…"

"Shut it," Harry snapped, his patience gone and his temper flaring.

"Mum would never forgive us if we let a rodent run free in her house."

"Careful it doesn't bite you, Harry."

"A wizard could get strange diseases that way."

"I said, _shut it!_ "

The twins eyed his wand dubiously, then shifted their hostile gazes to Draco's blank face and opaque eyes.

"What'd you do, Harry?" Fred needled, his voice cold and vicious, "slip him in through the window when Mum and Dad were asleep? Trust me, they know that trick."

"Yeah. And you won't be their favorite anymore, if they catch you with a Malfoy in your room… even a reject Malfoy like that one."

Harry lifted his wand, and a hex was forming in his mind when he heard Mrs. Weasley call shrilly, "Fred! George! Get out of there this instant!"

George winced, but Fred looked mulish. "It's our room, Mum!" he shouted back.

"Get out of there! Leave those boys alone!" Mrs. Weasley's bright head appeared outside the door, and Harry felt Draco slide down under the blankets in embarrassment. "I ought to skin the pair of you! Sneaking into the house, disturbing people, acting like you were raised in a barn instead of a civilized home… Get out here _this instant!_ "

The twins slunk to the door, tossing sullen looks over their shoulders at Harry. Mrs. Weasley grabbed each by an ear as they came out. "I told you to stay in London, and I meant it!"

"Why? So you can turn our room into a…”

" _That's enough!_ Both of you, get down to the kitchen, and don't even _think_ about disobeying me!"

Utter silence met this command. Then Mrs. Weasley's pleasant face peeked around the door for a moment. "I'm sorry, boys. I meant to let you have a nice lie-in."

"It's okay, Mrs. Weasley," Harry muttered, shoving his wand behind him and flushing.

"It's not okay, and those two hooligans are going to find out just how not okay it is! But don't let them bother you, my dears. Iffy’s up and fed. Breakfast is waiting for you. Come on down to the kitchen when you're ready." She shut the door with a snap, leaving Harry and Draco alone again.

Harry just sat in the middle of the bed, breathing hard, trying to calm his racing pulse. Draco sat up. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, cautiously, Draco leaned into Harry's side. Harry looped an arm around his shoulders, holding him gratefully, and turned to bury his face in Draco's hair.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Draco shook his head without speaking.

"I am, Draco. I hate that you have to go through this all the time."

"It's okay. Really. _I'm_ okay."

Harry turned to slip both arms around the other boy, pulling him close. "God, I love you."

"Don't go all mushy on me."

"Wouldn't dream of it! But may I say one thing?"

"What?" Draco demanded, suspiciously.

"You look particularly delicious this morning, Dragon."

Draco smiled and leaned into the offered kiss. Soon, they were tangled together on the bed, laughing, touching, murmuring breathlessly as their pulses quickened and their bodies moved ever more eagerly against each other. Harry made love to Draco with all the passion and tenderness he had in him, oblivious to what might be going on downstairs or passing through the minds of the Weasley twins. Their taunts and insults were forgotten. The hostility of half the wizarding world meant nothing, less than nothing, for he had his dragon lover close in his arms and the rest of the world could go hang itself for all he cared.

When they finally issued forth from the twins' room, Harry was ravenously hungry and deeply contented. He cast a sideways glance at Draco, wondering if every member of the Weasley family would be able to see in that beautiful face exactly what they had been doing upstairs. Harry could see it, but then, Harry knew Draco better than he knew himself, and what others could not even guess at, he could read with certainty.

Draco turned his gleaming, perfectly groomed head toward Harry and lifted one eyebrow. "Am I sprouting antennae?"

Harry only grinned in answer. He had done a particularly nice job on Draco's hair today. He was getting the hang of the Cleaning Comb and ribbon, and with each successive day, he got fewer complaints from Draco about his clumsiness or the length of time it took him to finish.

Harry did not know exactly why, but the business of grooming Draco's hair was his favorite part of the day—well, his favorite part outside the privacy of their bed, anyway. Much as he sympathized with Draco's frustration over his blindness, he found that he adored having the other boy depend on him for simple, intimate things like doing up buttons and tying back his hair. Some of these things Draco could manage on his own, with a bit of work, but Harry preferred to do them for him and only let him do them himself when he was in a particularly prickly mood. And the hair was especially difficult for him. He could wash and comb it, but struggled to pull it back or tie a ribbon in it with no visual cues and no sensation in half of his fingers. So the job devolved on Harry, who relished it and generally lingered over it as long as possible.

They clattered down the many stairs, Draco following Harry with a hand on his shoulder. As they approached the last bend in the staircase, they heard the sound of voices and the cooing of a baby. Draco’s grip on Harry tightened. Harry caught his hand and tucked it against his side, drawing the other boy closer. Then they strode down the last few steps together.

All talk in the kitchen broke off at their entrance. Mrs. Weasley stood at the stove with her wand in one hand and a toasting fork in the other. Several pans of food—bacon, eggs, sausages and a huge pot of porridge—sizzled and snapped on the stovetop, filling the room with enticing smells. Immediately to Harry’s right, on a table against the wall, stood a cradle, and both of the twins were bent over it with foolish expressions on their faces. But the instant they caught sight of Harry and Draco, they snapped upright, their faces going blank, and sidled over to the table.

"Well, well,” one of them drawled nastily, as they dropped into their chairs, “looks like Potter gave his pet ferret a bath."

Mrs. Weasley whirled from her place by the stove and grabbed the offending twin by the ear. Hauling him to his feet with surprising strength, she pointed a furious finger at his nose and said, "If you ever say such a thing in my house again, I'll throw you out of it, George Weasley. Apologize to Harry and Draco."

"I won't," George muttered.

"You will, or you'll leave now, and you won't come back. _Apologize_."

George swallowed painfully, turned a pleading look on his twin, then growled, "Sorry," without looking at the two younger boys.

Mrs. Weasley shoved him back into his seat, then waved toward a pair of empty chairs. "Sit down, boys, and have some breakfast.”

Draco squeezed Harry’s hand and started toward the sound of Lily’s burbling, but Harry halted him. “Sit down. I’ll get her.”

Harry guided Draco to a chair, ignoring the twins sharp eyes on them, then crossed to the cradle and looked inside. Lily lay in a nest of blankets, dressed in a suit of bright, Slytherin green. Her clear, winter-grey eyes gazed up at her father’s face, and she smiled happily. Harry grinned back at her, unable to resist his daughter’s potent charm.

“Look at you! Our own little Slytherin angel,” he said, as he lifted her out of the cradle and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Did Mrs. Weasley give you that pretty thing you’re wearing?”

“That red one she had on yesterday was much too small,” Mrs. Weasley informed him. “She nearly tore the feet out of it.”

“She’s growing like a weed, and Hogwarts doesn’t exactly have a ready supply of baby clothes.”

Lily laughed and made a grab for his glasses. He whipped her smartly away, but not before she planted a damp hand in the middle of one lens. Crossing back to the table, he handed her to Draco.

“Did she behave herself last night?” he asked, as he sat in the chair to Draco’s right.

“Good as gold,” Mrs. Weasley replied. “How many slices of bacon for you, Draco?”

“Umm. One, I guess."

"One! Humph." She promptly shoveled four thick slices onto his plate, along with a couple of fried eggs and a stack of buttered toast, and plunked it down on the table in front of him. "That will do for starters, but there's plenty more. Harry, I've got your favorite bangers in syrup. Do you like bangers, Draco?"

"No, ma'am. Thanks anyway."

"Harry likes them with plenty of maple syrup and a bit of porridge."

"I know." Draco made a fastidious face and cast a sidelong glance at Harry's plate. "He eats them all the time."

"They're good!" Harry protested, waving a sausage about on the end of his fork. "Mrs. Weasley's are even better than the ones at Hogwarts! Try one…"

A drop of maple syrup flew from the sausage and struck Draco on the cheek, making him jerk his head back. ”Get that out of my face, Potter."

"There speaks a true Malfoy," George muttered.

"That's right," Draco answered, shortly, "even if I am a reject one."

"Well, I think being rejected by the Malfoy clan is a point in his favor," Mrs. Weasley remarked, as she glared at her sons.

Harry dropped a hand to Draco’s thigh under cover of the table and squeezed it once in apology. Then he asked, “Do you need any help with Lily? I can hold her while you eat.”

“No. I’ve got her.”

“Tuck in,” Mrs. Weasley scolded, when she saw that Draco had not touched his breakfast. “You don’t eat enough to keep a garden gnome alive.”

Draco offered her a slight, one-sided smile in response, and reached hesitantly for his fork. Harry knew that he was uncomfortable with eating in company, because he hated using his hands to find his food, but there was nothing Harry could do to help. This was one of those tasks that was entirely on him. Harry dug into his food, while Draco located a piece of bacon and munched on it.

The twins couldn’t keep their eyes off Lily, and the longer they looked at her, the more their expressions softened, in spite of their resentment of her mother. Fred was pulling faces at her, making her giggle, when the back door banged open and Ron and Ginny blew in. They carried broomsticks and were grinning widely. Ron paused to lean his broomstick in the corner, then nodded cheerily at his friends.

"Hallo, Harry. Malfoy."

Draco nodded. "Weasley." He cocked his head to one side, listening to the second set of footsteps, and amended, "Weas _leys_."

"Morning, Draco," Ginny said, easily.

Fred and George watched this exchange in appalled silence, until their little sister greeted Draco with such aplomb. Then they exploded in outrage.

"What _is_ this?!" Fred demanded. "Be Kind to Animals week?"

"You're a pig, Fred," Ginny retorted, coldly.

"What in bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" George chimed in, glaring furiously at Ron.

"I was saying hello to my friends," Ron answered, one eyebrow raised in surprise. "D'you have a problem with that?"

"You're… you're _consorting with the enemy!_ "

Ron gave snort of amused disgust. "Get over it, already." Dropping into a chair to Malfoy's left, he grinned at his mother and said, "I'm starved, Mum. Anything left to eat?"

"I missed something," George commented to the room at large.

"Nothing new there," Ginny informed him, loftily, as she sat down next to Harry.

"Since when did Ferret Boy become everyone's favorite person?"

Mrs. Weasley swooped down on him, reaching to grab his ear, eyes snapping fire. George recoiled from her, his hands raised to protect his face, and shrieked, "Sorry! I'm sorry!"

Mrs. Weasley cast him a warning glare and retreated to the stove, where she began loading dishes with food. Ron and Ginny fell to talking with Harry and Draco, all of them ignoring the twins.

"We've been out practicing our Quidditch moves," Ron said, as he snitched a piece of toast from Draco's plate.

"Would that be the move where you fall off your broom?" Draco asked, sweetly.

"At least I can _find_ my broom," Ron retorted.

"We're going to play some one-on-one later," Ginny interjected. "Harry, do you want to play?"

"Three-way Quidditch?" Harry asked, grinning.

"Me and Ginny against you," Ron amended.

Draco laughed. "Harry will still beat you."

"We'll use you as ballast. All that deadweight on his broom will slow him down."

Harry grinned even more widely. "I'll take that challenge!"

"But Malfoy can't touch the snitch!" Ginny insisted, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I know how you two work. You'll have him nicking it and hiding it in his robes!"

"Malfoys never cheat," Draco informed her, haughtily.

"Unless there's something in it for them," she shot back. Glancing at the baby in Draco’s arms, she suddenly called, “Watch it! Iffy’s going for your plate!”

Draco promptly lifted her up against his shoulder, foiling her attempt to upend the plate into his lap, and cradled her there with his left hand while he pushed the plate farther back from the edge of the table. None of his friends took any notice of this, beyond congratulating him on a quick save, but Fred and George suddenly perked up and stared intently at him.

“Is that the famous adamant hand?” Fred asked, avid curiosity in his face.

Harry turned quickly to look at Draco and realized that he had, for the first time, raised his left hand above the edge of the table. The gleaming adamant lay against Lily’s green-clad bottom, shining like an enormous diamond. It was no wonder that it had caught the twins’ attention, but Harry had no idea where their new interest would lead.

Draco turned his winter eyes on them and nodded.

"Let's have a look."

He hesitated for a bare moment, then quietly handed Lily to Harry and held out his hand. As he turned it and spread the fingers, the light hit the glittering surface and broke into a myriad colors.

"Blimey!" Fred breathed. "What happened to the fingers? I thought adamant was unbreakable!"

"I heard it works like a wand," George added.

“It does,” Draco said, his face neutral.

"Go on, then, do some magic with it," Fred urged.

“It’s not safe. I can’t see what I’m doing." Draco gestured with the hand and said, sweetly, “I might try to hex your brother and hit you.”

“Oh, go on,” Ron said, through a mouthful of eggs, “it doesn’t matter which one you hex.”

“He’s right!” George exclaimed.

"Show us!” Fred chimed in.

"Yeah, show us!"

"Cast a spell!"

" _Do something!_ " the twins chorused.

Squeezing Draco’s thigh again, Harry leaned close to murmur, “You don’t have to.”

Draco shrugged and turned his blind eyes on the nearest twin. “Say something.”

“Like what?” Fred demanded.

A smile broke over Draco’s face, as he leveled a finger at the startled twin. “ _Levicorpus!_ ”

In the next instant, Fred found himself hanging from the ceiling by one ankle, upside down, his eyes on a level with George’s. His twin stared at him for a stunned moment, then gave a crack of laughter. Fred’s face flushed a bright red.

“Put me down!”

Still grinning, Draco gestured, and Fred dropped back into the chair with a crash.

“Ouch! That hurt!”

“I told you I couldn’t aim.”

"That was _brilliant_ ," George said, with utter sincerity.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t you hanging from the ceiling,” Fred protested, as a grudging smile began to twitch at his lips.

"Brilliant, indeed,” Mrs. Weasley interjected, tartly, “but the next time you want to make things levitate in my kitchen, you might try putting the dirty dishes in the sink."

Draco flushed a dull red and muttered, "Sorry, Mrs. Weasley."

"Not to worry, dear. I'm sure it did Fred a deal of good."

"What did Fred a deal of good?" a new voice asked, and Bill Weasley appeared in the doorway.

Everyone began to talk at once, while Harry and Draco sat quietly in their chairs listened to the cheerful chaos. Finally, Bill got the gist of the story from his clamoring siblings and turned to smile at the two silent boys.

“Glad to hear you’re not letting those two barbarians get the drop on you, Malfoy.”

As Bill took a seat at the table, Harry reflected that he just kept getting cooler and better looking. His hair was longer than Draco's and a truly astounding color of red, and his lean face was tanned from his work in the Egyptian sun. Harry wouldn’t admit to being jealous, but he was privately a little relieved that Draco couldn’t see the man smiling so charmingly at him. Then he gave himself a mental shake to banish that unworthy thought and and grinned a welcome at Bill.

Fixing his mother with a winsome look, Bill asked, “Any crumbs left for me, Mum?”

Mrs. Weasley began loading up yet another plate, casting dubious glances over her shoulder at her son as she did so. “I thought you went down to the village to get a haircut.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?

“Wishful thinking,” George replied.

She plunked the plate down in front of Bill, planted her hands on her hips, and said, “Let me give you a proper haircut before Fleur gets here. You wouldn’t want your fiancee to see you looking that way.”

Bill winked elaborately at Harry. "Don't forget the earring."

"How could I?" his mother lamented, her eyes lingering on the dragon tooth swinging from his left ear.

"I'm glad you're here, Malfoy," Bill confided loudly. "Maybe she'll spend some of her time trying to cut _your_ hair, and I'll get a few minutes' peace." Then changing the subject abruptly, he said, “Charlie asked me to pass on the message that he won’t be back ’til supper time.”

“Honestly!” Mrs. Weasley looked a bit harassed at that. “I can’t keep track of you boys! The twins pop up out of nowhere, Charlie goes running off… Where is he, anyway?”

"Went over to the Diggorys," Ron supplied, through a generous mouthful of eggs. "Said he wanted to talk to Mr. Diggory about the new restrictions the Ministry's put on transporting dragon eggs… or something like that."

"Dragon eggs?" Draco echoed, confused.

"Charlie works with dragons," Ron informed him. "Loves the ghastly things. He's almost as nuts about them as Hagrid, and you _know_ what Hagrid's like!”

Malfoy grinned. “Yeah.”

"Hey!" Ron brightened. "Now that Bill's here, and the Evil Twins are acting sort of decent, we could have a real Quidditch match! Teams of three!"

Harry shot an uncomfortable look at Malfoy, but he seemed untroubled by the suggestion. "I don't know…"

"It's okay," Draco said. “Iffy and I will watch.”

* * *

Half an hour later, the Weasleys, Harry, Draco and Lily were headed out the door with a collection of brooms and Quidditch gear. Once in the garden, Harry mounted his Firebolt and pulled Malfoy in close to his side. “Come on, Draco, let’s fly.”

Draco shot him a swift, grateful look and let Harry guide him onto the broomstick. It took them a moment to get Lily safely settled inside Malfoy’s cloak, then Harry kicked away from the ground. The broom shot up. They went soaring above the garden and the upturned faces of the Weasleys, headed for the spinney.

Fred stared up at them, watching them disappear over the trees, and said, glumly, “The ferret isn’t going away, is he?”

“No, and you should be glad he isn’t,” Bill said, firmly.

"Why?" George demanded. "You're not telling me you _like_ that slimy little git!"

"What I think of him isn't the point—though, yes, I rather think I do like him—it’s what Harry thinks of him that matters."

"Harry's brains are addled," Fred grumped.

"Harry's _happy_ ," Ginny said, firmly, giving her brother a shove in the back to emphasize her words. “And he’s got Iffy now, which changes everything.”

“Trapped by a baby,” George said heavily. “Sounds positively Medieval.”

“Well, at least she’s a _cute_ baby,” Fred added.

Ron, who had ignored this exchange, interrupted them by saying, glumly, “Poor Ferret.”

All three of his brothers turned on him, one in surprise and the other two in horror.

“Poor Ferret?” Fred exploded in outrage. “Did you just say _poor Ferret?!_ ”

“What do you mean?” Bill said, in the same moment.

“It’s killing him that he can’t fly.”

“That’s right, I’d forgotten that Malfoy was a fairly decent Quidditch player at one time.”

Ron’s eyes followed his friends’ shrinking forms. “Better than decent, even after he lost his hand. He and Harry trained for months, until Malfoy was better with three fake fingers than he ever was with his real hand, and he could beat any Seeker in the school except Harry. But he never got the chance to play, because the Slytherins wouldn’t have him.”

Even the twins had nothing to say to that. All of the Weasleys loved Quidditch, all of them were excellent players, and all of them understood the frustration of a born flyer who couldn’t fly. They were striding through a copse of trees, toward the spinney, and they could see the two boys who had flown ahead of them waiting at the last line of trees. Harry was looking around eagerly, excited at the prospect of an impromptu match, but Draco was leaning against a tree with Lily in his arms, his head down and his posture withdrawn.

Ron took one look at him and blurted out, “I’ve got an idea!” Putting on a burst of speed, he sprinted ahead of his siblings, calling, “Hey, Ferret, did you bring your Snitch?”

Malfoy’s head came up. His frowning, grey eyes found Ron. “Yes, but if you’re thinking of using it for the match…”

“No, no,” he waved that away impatiently, “I was just wondering… will it work the same in the air as it does on the ground?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“Well, try it now, you prat! You can use my broom!”

“No, my Firebolt,” Harry cut in, his eyes alight with excitement. “Try it!”

“What’s all this?” George demanded, as the rest of the Weasley clan ranged itself around the three boys. “What Snitch? And what about our match?”

“Forget the match,” Ron snapped. “You four can play without us! Unless… Harry…”

“Are you kidding? I want to see if this works!”

“ _What_ works?” Fred insisted.

“Draco’s Snitch. It’s… oh, just show them!”

Malfoy obediently reached into his pocket and pulled out a Quidditch Snitch. It sat on his palm, wings fanning gently.

“It’s a Snitch. So what?” George demanded.

Shooting him a half smile, Draco touched the Snitch with his adamant fingertip and murmured, “ _Ductio._ ”

The Snitch sprang instantly to life, zipping up to hang a foot in front of Malfoy’s face, wings moving so fast they were nothing but a blur of gold. Malfoy stared intently at it with his blind eyes, and Ron recognized from the look he wore that he was telling it where he wanted to go. The Snitch moved and Malfoy followed, threading his way past the Weasleys standing all around him, between a couple of trees, around a large rock in his path, and out into the spinney. There, he paused and turned back toward the others.

“Wow,” Fred said, simply.

“It’s one of Dumbledore’s inventions,” Malfoy said. “I walked all over Hogwarts with it and never bumped into a single suit of armor.”

“Wicked!” George exclaimed. “D’you think it’ll work on a broomstick?”

“We’re going to find out,” Harry said, grabbing his Firebolt and trotting over to where Malfoy waited. “Give me Lily and get on the broom.”

Malfoy handed off the baby, took the broom and swung his leg over it. His face was tight with nerves, but his hands were steady when they closed around the polished handle. The Snitch back-winged a little, opening the distance between them, but still hovered directly in front of Draco’s face. The slightest pressure with his foot against the grass, and the broom soared upward with the Snitch leading the way. Draco gave a whoop of surprise, then burst out laughing.

“Wait!” Harry called, suddenly realizing that he was stuck on the ground with a baby in his arms, while Draco was flying away without him. “Oh, bollocks!”

“Here.” Ron shoved his own broomstick into Harry’s hands.

“I’ll take Iffy,” Fred said, unexpectedly.

Harry looked from his outstretched hands to the figure flying circles far above his head, and abruptly gave in. “All right, but don’t take your eyes off her. And _don’t_ put her down! She’s a terror, once she gets loose.” He shoved Lily into Fred’s hands, took the broom from Ron, and mounted it. A moment later, he was swooping up beside Malfoy, calling, “Let’s go, Dragon! But not too fast. This broom can’t keep up with a Firebolt!”

Ron watched them fly off over the treetops, so close together that their knees touched, and a huge, triumphant grin spread over his face. “Brilliant. It works.”

“I don’t see why he even needs the Snitch up there,” Ginny said. “It’s not like there’s anything to run into.”

Bill grinned up at the two boys. “Maybe not, but it gives him confidence. I wouldn’t want to fly blind, even if I knew for certain that there were no mountains in front of me.”

Ron paid no attention to them, his eyes still fixed on his two friends, who were now performing acrobatics over the spinney, the Firebolt easily out-performing the old Comet. Draco’s delighted laughter drifted back to them on the breeze. “Did you hear that?” he asked Ginny. “I haven’t heard Ferret laugh like that since… well, forever.”

“Sometimes, you’re quite sweet, Ronald,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “Once in a very great while.”

“Oi! Get back here!”

They both turned at Fred’s shout to see Lily down in the grass, crawling at top speed in hot pursuit of a capering garden gnome.

“Oh, Fred!” Ginny wailed, “didn’t Harry tell you not to put her down?”

“Come back here, you little rodent!” George scolded.

Lily uttered a piercing shriek of delight and took off after the gnome, plowing into the tall, waving grass with all five Weasleys scrambling after her.

 

**_To be continued…_ **


	16. Epilogue: Iffy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little slice of life for Harry, Draco and Iffy on Iffy's first day at Hogwarts.

 

_**Eleven Years Later** _

Two figures walked calmly through the hustle and bustle of King's Cross Station, the small girl with her hand in that of the tall, lanky man beside her. At first glance, they bore no resemblance to each other. The man had messy black hair and green eyes behind round glasses, while his companion was as fair as she was slender and delicate, but there was an air about them and a way of carrying themselves that made them appear very much alike.

While the man was not handsome in any standard way, the sense of power and passion that radiated from him lent him a glamour that went far beyond common beauty. His slightly erratic features were alight with pleasure as he smiled down at the girl, and more than one person in the crowd turned to give him another look in passing.

The girl drew stares in her own right. Her silver-blonde hair hung down her back in a fat, silken plait, a few strands escaping to fall over her forehead and tickle her eyebrows. Quicksilver eyes gazed up at the man in open adoration, and a bewitching smile flashed across her fine, aristocratic features when he spoke to her.

She looked to be quite young, but she was, in fact, eleven years old and about to board the Hogwarts Express for her first year at the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Unlike the other students hurrying toward Platform 9¾, she had no luggage with her other than a satchel slung over one shoulder that held her school robes and her wand. Nor was she, like the other youngsters, chattering with nervousness about what they would find at school. All her excitement was focused on the trip by train and the new friends she would make on the journey.

As they drew nearer the platform, more and more of the parents and older students in the crowd recognized the mismatched pair. Witches and wizards nodded a greeting to the man or waved and smiled. A few of them favored the girl with smiles, as well.

One boy, who appeared to be sixteen or seventeen, called out to her as they approached the barrier, "You riding up with us, Iffy?"

The girl fired him a blinding smile and called back, "I'm going up on the train! Isn't that _brilliant?_ "

The boy laughed. Iffy gave a joyful bounce. The boy’s parents smiled indulgently at her, then shot her companion slightly bashful smiles as well, their eyes shifting away as quickly as politeness allowed.

The black-haired man grinned and bent down closer to the diminutive Iffy. "Remember, take the barrier at a run."

"I _know_ , Dad,” she said, rolling her eyes. Then she broke into a run and disappeared through the barrier. Her father followed her at a more dignified pace.

They found themselves on Platform 9¾, in the middle of a cheerful chaos. Iffy caught her father's hand and dragged him bodily toward the gleaming, scarlet train, weaving through the crowd as only a small and fleet-footed child could. Her larger father had to mutter apologies right and left, while he hopped about trying to avoid stepping on feet, robes or carts. Then they were in an open space right by the tracks, and Iffy came to a dead stop.

Her eyes widened, her head tilted back, and her lips formed an O of delight.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" her father asked.

"I want to ride it _all_ the time! Why do we use the stupid floo network and get soot up our noses, when we could be riding a _train_?"

He laughed at her evident delight. "Ready to climb aboard?"

Some of the enthusiasm drained from her face, and she turned pleading eyes on her father. "Why can't you come with me?"

"You don't want your father hanging about, when you're headed off to school."

"Yes, I do," she said, emphatically. "Besides, you'll be there tonight, won't you?"

"Not in time for the Sorting, and not at your dormitory." Crouching down to bring his head on a level with hers, he took her slender shoulders in his hands and said, earnestly, "Remember, you're a student at Hogwarts now. You'll be sorted into a House and expected to behave just like the other students. No running off home when you feel a little lonely."

"But…"

He lifted a finger to silence her. "By bedtime, you'll be a Gryffindor, and the Tower will be your home."

She grinned impishly at him. "What if I'm a Slytherin?"

"Then you'll be the best witch Slytherin ever produced."

"You… you won't be mad if I get sorted to Slytherin, will you? Or somewhere else?"

"Of course not. The Sorting Hat will put you where you belong, and we'll be happy for you."

"Mum will have kittens if I turn out to be a Hufflepuff."

He laughed and gave her a swift hug. "Probably." Then his face sobered, and he drew her a little closer, to speak more privately to her. "Iffy, I want you to be prepared for what you may find when you get to school."

“You don’t have to tell me. I've lived at Hogwarts all my life.”

"Yes, but this will be different. _You_ will be different, and it won't be easy. Trust me, little one. I know all about being different."

She regarded him soberly. "Because of your scar?"

"Because of what my scar means to everyone in the wizarding world. From the minute I stepped through that barrier and into our world, I was different. Famous. Set apart. And I came from the Muggle world, where I was nobody, so the change was very hard for me."

"But I'm not a Muggle. I know all about the wizarding world."

"You know the parts of it your mother and I have allowed you to see. You know Hogwarts well enough, and you've made friends there, but we’ve protected you from most of it. You could always come home, to our little corner of the castle, where it was safe and warm and everyone understood exactly who you are. But now you'll be out there in the school, unprotected, where people know more about you than you want them to know and think they have the right to judge you.

"Some of them will simply want to be your friend. But some of them will be jealous of how famous you are, and some will hate you because of your parents. Because they don't think we're a real family."

She scowled at him, her angelic face clouded with anger. "I'll hex them!"

He sighed and chuckled. "You are your mother's child. No, miss minx, you will _not_ hex them. You will deal with it in a dignified, civilized way. And if that doesn't work…"

"Hex 'em!"

Before he could answer her, a new voice hailed them from down the platform. "Harry! Haa-rr-rry!"

He rose to his feet and turned to see a witch in sober, charcoal grey robes hurrying toward them. She had a baby on her hip and a toddler clinging to her hand, both of them with shocking red hair. Her own brown hair was pulled back into a severe bun, but even that couldn't quite tame it. It escaped to fly about her face as she strode through the crowd.

"Hermione!" Harry planted a kiss on her cheek, as she came to a flustered stop in front of him, then tickled the much fatter cheek of the baby in her arms. "What are you doing here?"

"I completely forgot last night. I was supposed to give you a revised copy of my manuscript." She pulled an enormous bundle of parchment from her even more enormous bag and dumped it in Harry's arms. "Draco promised to check my potions recipes in the Dark Arts chapter, and if I don't get it done this week, I'll miss my deadline with the editors. Then I'll _really_ be in trouble!"

"Hermione…"

"You're heading up to the school with Iffy, aren't you?"

"No. I'm working late again tonight."

She huffed and shook her head, then held out her hand. "All right. I suppose I can get Ron to floo over with it later…"

"I can take it, Auntie!" Iffy said, holding out both her small hands to accept the load of parchment.

Hermione eyed her fondly. "I don't think you can even carry it, darling. Besides, you'll be too busy settling into Gryffindor Tower to bother with delivering packages."

Iffy managed a perfect imitation of Hermione's huffy expression and said, "Why does everyone assume I'll be sorted to Gryffindor?"

"You've been a Gryffindor since you were born, didn't you know that? The Littlest Gryffindor!"

"I'm also the littlest Slytherin," she reminded her grinning Aunt.

"Just so long as you're not a Hufflepuff. Your mother would have an apoplexy."

"I like Hufflepuffs."

Harry laughed. "Give her the manuscript, Hermione. I'll owl Draco, and he'll send Dobby for it if she forgets."

"I won't forget," Iffy said, loftily. "I'm smart enough to be a Ravenclaw; I don't forget _anything_."

"Huh," Hermione grunted, “and as modest as a Ravenclaw, too. Oh, all right."

Taking the satchel from Iffy's shoulder, she carefully fitted the manuscript into it and fastened it shut. "Take good care of that," she chided, as she slung the much heavier bag over Iffy's shoulder, "and tell your mother that I need it back by the end of the week!"

"I will."

The sound of the train whistle blowing cut off their conversation and started Iffy dancing with impatience. "It's leaving! It's leaving!"

Hermione gave her a hug and let her bestow smacking kisses on both the children. Then Harry crouched down to fold her in his arms.

"Have fun on the trip, miss minx, and don't hex anyone."

"I will. You'll come and see me when you get home, won't you?"

"Not tonight. You'll be in your new House, and I'll be late. _Very_ late," he added significantly, bringing a grimace to Iffy's face.

"Mum will be grouchy."

" _Very_ grouchy," Harry agreed, solemnly.

"Then it's a good thing I'll be sleeping somewhere else!" On that cheerful note, she turned and dashed toward the train, her silvery braid dancing on her back. "Bye, Dad!"

"Good bye!"

As her slender figure bounded up the steps and disappeared into the carriage, Hermione asked, in a low voice, "Did you bring her all the way to London so she could ride the train with her classmates?"

"Why not? It will give her a little time to be a normal First Year, before they find out who she is."

"You're a good father, Harry Potter."

* * *

Iphigenia wandered down the train, looking for an empty compartment. She passed several that were full of older children, many of whom waved when they saw her. As she hesitated at the end of the carriage, one of the big boys popped out of his compartment and hailed her gleefully.

"Iffy! I thought I recognized that white head of yours! What are you doing on the train?"

"Going to school," she replied, laughing up at him, "just like you!"

"Come in and sit with us."

"Ta, Rollie, but I already know all you lot. I want to find some First Years."

He laughed and waved her along the carriage. "They always trickle down to the back."

She left him with a smile and a wave, and as she slipped into the next carriage, she heard him shouting to his friends that Baby Ferret was on the train. Several cars down, she found children more her size, though even the youngest of them seemed large in comparison. She was near the back of the train and beginning to despair of finding a suitable compartment, when she halted in an open doorway and found herself confronted by three young girls. One of them was rather tall, with thick auburn hair and golden-brown eyes that reminded Iffy of a cat. The second was a nondescript brunette with a haughty expression, and the third was a shy girl with soft brown hair and freckles all across her nose. All three of them regarded Iffy in silence, until the redhead stepped forward and said,

"Hallo. Are you a First Year?"

"Yes." Iffy smiled brightly at her. "My name's Iphigenia, but everyone calls me Iffy."

"You don't look old enough to be at Hogwarts," the second girl said, coldly.

"I'm eleven, same as you. What's your name?" she asked, pointedly.

The redhead answered first. "I'm Theodora Fox. This is Rowena Diggle and Anne Fitzgerald." The shy girl smiled. "Anne's parents are Muggles, and she's only just found out she's a witch, so I've been showing her around."

"Really?" Iffy gazed wide-eyed at the blushing Anne. "Neat."

"Are you Muggle-born, too?" Rowena asked.

Iffy couldn't tell if she meant to be snotty, or if that was just her natural tone of voice, but the question irritated her, and she had a momentary desire to put this rude girl in her place by telling her exactly who her parents were. But her father's warnings were still fresh in her mind, and she decided against it. Better to give these girls a chance to know her simply as Iffy, before they found out anything more.

Keeping her wide, deceptively innocent smile in place, she said, "Nope, not me."

"Everything is so different," Anne said, quietly.

Iffy stepped into the compartment, tossed her satchel into an empty seat, and perched on the edge of it where she could see Anne more clearly. "Don't worry, you’ll get used to it fast enough. And Hogwarts is lovely!"

"If this is your first year at school, how would you know anything about Hogwarts?" Rowena demanded.

Iffy laughed, and the faces of the girls around her softened under the unconscious magic in the sound. "I live there."

"At Hogwarts?" Anne breathed. "In the castle?"

"Of course. I've lived there all my life."

“You mean, since you were born?" All the girls were now crowding around her, curiosity overcoming even Rowena’s haughtiness. "That's impossible! They don’t allow babies at Hogwarts! Wouldn’t they have sent your mum home when she got herself… you know….”

"It was during the war,” Iffy said, blithely. “The Headmaster didn't send anyone home, if they didn't want to go."

"The war's been over for ages," Theodora pointed out.

"Yes, but after they finished school, my mother got a job there, so we stayed.”

"What about your father?"

"He works at the Ministry of Magic. He's an Auror."

Anne's eyes grew round. “What’s an Auror?”

“They hunt Dark wizards.” Iffy said, but before she could expand on this statement, another voice interrupted them from the doorway.

"Did you say your dad's an Auror?"

Iffy looked up at the young, fresh-faced boy who had spoken. He was nearly as small as she was, with curly brown hair and frank, intelligent eyes.

"Yes."

"My brother's one, too. Dennis Creevey. Maybe he knows your dad?"

Iffy grinned. "He works for my dad."

The boy's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "You mean, you're…"

"Iphigenia. Pleased to meet you."

"I'm Peter. Peter Creevey. Pleased to meet you, Iphigenia."

With that, Peter joined the girls in the compartment and began chatting brightly with them in a way that would have made Iffy's father smile in recognition. Iffy didn't remember the older Creevey brothers, not having seen them since she was a baby, but she'd heard enough stories to know that Peter was exactly like his brothers. He also, apparently, shared their quick wits and decisive loyalty, because her one, swift hint had been enough to shut his mouth for good on the subject of her parents.

While Peter was putting Anne at her ease and Rowena was listening jealously to everything he said, Iffy turned to Theodora and said, artlessly, "You have the prettiest hair I've ever seen."

The other girl flushed slightly and threw her a quick smile. "I was just about to say the same thing about yours. I've never seen hair quite that color."

"I get it from my mother's side of the family. In fact, I get everything from my mother's side of the family. My father is always joking that I'm not really his."

Theodora groaned in shared disgust at the foolishness of parents. ”My dad says they found me under a rock by the road, because I don't look like him or Mum. But my gran says I'm a dead ringer for Granddad Rufus. Rufus Fox. How's that for a silly name? Of course, Gran's is even sillier, she's… Oh."

"What?" Iffy prompted.

"Nothing. I forgot."

"Go on. What's your gran's name? It couldn't possibly be sillier than mine!"

"Actually, it's the same as yours. Iphigenia Fox."

“Really? I'm named after my Great, Great Aunt Iphigenia Fox. She's a healer at St. Mungo's and my mother's favorite aunt. I wonder if we could be cousins, or something?"

Theodora shrugged with feigned unconcern, but Iffy could see a spark of interest in her eyes. "I'm related to every major wizarding family in Britain. I have cousins all over the place." Her expression grew guarded, as she added, "But my mum and dad don't talk to most of them. What's your family name?"

Iffy hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said, "Malfoy."

Theodora's face went blank. "Malfoy? My parents don’t have anything to do with Malfoys."

"Well, your Gran does," Iffy said, reasonably. "She comes to visit us on the hols and sends my mother articles from the medical journals with interesting new potions in them. For goodness' sake, I was named for her!"

"Oh." Theodora's face turned thoughtful, and her cat's eyes dwelt on Iffy. "I suppose that's all right, then."

"Why don't your parents talk to your cousins?"

"Because most of them are pureblood snobs, who either fought for You-Know-Who in the war or at least wanted him to win."

"Oh, is _that_ all?" Iffy said, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Well, you don't have to worry about my parents. They both fought with Dumbledore. In fact, they were in the final battle together and were there when Voldem…"

"Don't!" Theodora squeaked.

"What's the matter?"

"Don't say his name!"

The others in the compartment were listening to them now, and they all shared Theodora's expression of horror.

"It's just a name. Anyway, he's been dead for years." When they all continued to stare at her, Iffy shrugged and huffed. "All I meant to say was that my family doesn’t have anything much to do with the rest of the Malfoys. There aren’t a whole lot of them left, anyway.”

"So that's your name?" Rowena cut in. "Malfoy?"

Iffy nodded.

"I remember reading about some Malfoys from the war."

" _Everybody_ was in the war," Iffy said, rolling her eyes again. "I've read about Diggleses and Foxes and… well, everybody."

"Yes, but this…"

“My brothers were there,” Peter chimed in, shooting Iffy a wink, “but not my parents. They’re Muggles and didn’t really know anything about You-Know-Who ‘til it was over.”

Theodora looked at him with new interest. “I read about the Creeveys who fought with Harry Potter. Did you ever meet him?”

Before Peter could reply to this, yet another voice called, "Iffy?"

All the First Years turned in surprise to see a mob of older students crowded into the doorway, a gangly Sixth Year boy and a curvaceous Seventh Year girl at the front. Somewhere near the back was Rollie Plunkett, the boy Iffy had met farther up the train.

"It _is_ you!" the boy at the front crowed. "Plunkett said you were aboard, but I didn't believe him. I said, 'What would Baby Ferret be doing on the Express, riding with the Great Unwashed?'"

"Hallo, George," Iffy said, grinning.

"Are you starting Hogwarts this year?" the girl asked. "You can't possibly be eleven already."

"Well, I am. My dad said I had to do it like a real First Year. So we went down to London and did all my shopping in Diagon Alley and stayed the night at the Leaky Cauldron and rode in a taxi to the station and ran through the barrier into Platform 9¾, and _it was brilliant!_ "

All the older kids laughed.

"So which House are you trying for?" another boy asked.

George scoffed at that. "She's for Gryffindor, of course."

"Not a chance. Slytherin," the girl shot back.

"Actually, I thought I'd try for Hufflepuff," Iffy said.

George's eyes popped half out of his head. " _Blimey_ , Iff! Your mum'd _kill_ you!"

Anne shot him a worried look, and Theodora asked, curiously, "What's she got against Hufflepuff?"

The older children exchanged goggling looks, and George gave a whoop of disbelief. "What, they don't know about your mum? Oh, boy, have you ickle Firsties got a surprise coming! Don't tell them, Iff. Let them find out on their own!"

"Find out _what?_ " Rowena demanded.

"Just that little Iffy here has the most famous mum in the entire wizarding world. That's all."

"Do shut up, George," Iffy wailed.

"Famous for what?" Theodora asked.

“Never mind. You’ll find out when you meet the Potions Master."

"Is that what she teaches?" Anne asked. "Potions?"

The mob of older students went off in another howl of laughter, then turned to leave, waving and calling to Iffy as they did. As their raucous voices died away, Anne turned to Iffy and asked, diffidently, "What did I say that was so funny?"

"Nothing. Don't pay any attention to them."

"Do you know all the Hogwarts students?" Rowena asked.

"A lot of them. The nice ones." Iffy didn't bother to explain what she meant by 'nice,' or how the not-so-nice ones talked about her and her parents. "I told you, I've lived there my whole life."

"Wow. That will sure make it easier for you."

"Not really. It just means all the teachers will expect more from me, because they know how talented and powerful my parents are. If I don't get top marks in everything, they'll say I'm not trying or not living up to my potential or something like that, then they'll tell my parents that I'm messing about in class and I'll be in _so_ much trouble. And if I even _think_ about muffing a potion…" She broke off and shuddered.

"Is your mum very strict with you?" Anne asked, seriously.

Iffy blinked at her in surprise, then answered, with equal solemnity, "My mum is the best mother and the best teacher in the whole world. And anyone who says different is a bloody great liar."

"Then why won't you tell us what the big secret is?" Rowena interjected.

"There is no secret. Anyone want to play a game of Exploding Snap?"

* * *

Iffy thoroughly enjoyed her boat ride across the lake and even kept a piece of pumpkin tart from her lunch for the giant squid. Peter found the squid fascinating and bemoaned the fact that he hadn't saved any food with which to tempt it to the surface. Theo and Rowena were not interested in sea life, and Anne was overwhelmed by everything, so Iffy and Peter chatted merrily away while the others rode in silence.

Professor McGonagall met the First Years in the entry hall. Iffy, mindful of her exalted status as a student at Hogwarts, did not wave or call out to her, but she smiled brightly when McGonagall's gimlet eyes rested on her face for a moment. McGonagall was no more proof against her wiles than anyone else and gave her a nod in greeting. Then they were traipsing into the Great Hall, under the eyes of the entire school, up the long aisle between the tables to the dais where the faculty sat.

Iffy tried to look composed and dignified. It was difficult when she was several inches shorter than anyone but Peter Creevey and she could see nothing without craning her neck or bouncing on her toes. But halfway down the aisle, the crowd split enough that she caught a glimpse of the high table. Her eyes swept the row of teachers seated there, from Professor Trelawney at one end to Hagrid at the other, and found what she had been searching for.

Her gaze moved unerringly to the slight, elegant figure in black robes sitting beside Professor Flitwick, his silver-gilt head angled to listen to something the tiny Flitwick was saying. He was, as always, the bright center of the room, the shining flame that drew all light and all eyes to him. Even the new students, nervous and excited about the Sorting to come and anxious to see everything at once, couldn’t keep their eyes from moving back to him a second and third time, drawn by the undefinable power that clung to him.

No matter how fascinating, frightening or outright shocking Draco Malfoy might be to others, to Iffy he was simply the mother she adored and for whom she would gladly walk barefoot into a dragon’s mouth, if he asked it of her. She watched as he smiled at something Flitwick said, then offered a dry retort that drew a high-pitched giggle from the Charms Master. She wished that she could call out to him, draw his attention, and see him smile at her, but she knew that neither he nor Professor McGonagall would approve, so she held her tongue and stayed sedately in her place.

The First Years formed a ragged, whispering line at the foot of the dais, facing the high table. Then McGonagall brought out the Sorting Hat on its tall stool. Iffy didn't pay much attention to the song the Hat sang. She'd heard enough of them to find them rather dull, and she was far more interested in peeking over her shoulder to spot friends in the crowd. Several of the older students were muttering and nodding in her direction, and she knew that her distinctive white-blonde head had given her away. Even as short as she was, she could never hide in any room, especially a room that also held Draco Malfoy.

The song done, McGonagall gave them her standard instructions, then pulled out her list.

"Adams, Viola," she called, and the first student climbed nervously to the dais to be sorted.

Several more were sorted, then they reached, "Creevey, Peter."

Iffy was not surprised when he ended up in Gryffindor, but she was a bit disappointed. She didn't plan to be a Gryffindor, herself, and she had rather hoped to be in Peter's house.

"Diggle, Rowena."

"RAVENCLAW!" the Hat bellowed.

Then, a few moments later, "Fitzgerald, Anne."

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Iffy gave Anne a congratulatory smile, as the blushing girl hurried past her on her way to the Hufflepuff table. Theo Fox came next, and she was sorted to Ravenclaw along with Rowena.

Finally, Professor McGonagall glanced at her list, gave Iffy a look over the tops of her spectacles, and called, firmly, "Malfoy, Lily."

A hum of noise answered her, and Iffy caught more than one startled look from her classmates. At the Head Table, Draco had stopped talking to Flitwick and turned his attention on the sorting. Iffy felt suddenly more self-conscious than she ever had in her life. She climbed onto the dais, then up onto the stool. The Sorting Hat settled over her head.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the Littlest Gryffindor," the Hat said in her ear.

"Actually, I was rather hoping not," Iffy murmured, politely.

"No? Prefer Slytherin, do you? Fine House, Slytherin, with a proud tradition of pureblood wizards."

"Umm…"

"You're a difficult one, Lily Iphigenia Potter Malfoy, just like your father. Yes. Hmm. The fact is, you'd do well in any House. You have the courage of a Gryffindor, the loyalty of a Hufflepuff, the cleverness of a Ravenclaw and the cunning of a Slytherin. But you don't want to take the easy way, and follow in your parents' footsteps, do you? No. You go your own road, eh?" The Hat paused, and Iffy could hear the voices in the room rise as the Hat remained stubbornly quiet. "So, which House would _you_ prefer?"

"I… I don't suppose you'd put me in Hufflepuff?"

"Hufflepuff! Draco Malfoy would cut me to ribbons! It's more than my life is worth!"

Iffy sighed. "I was afraid of that. All right then, how about Ravenclaw?"

The Hat drew in a deep breath and bellowed, "RAVENCLAW!"

As Professor McGonagall pulled the Hat from her head, Iffy saw that the entire Ravenclaw table was on its feet, clapping and cheering. McGonagall looked startled, and when Iffy reached the floor, she turned toward the head table to see her mother staring at the Sorting Hat in blank shock. A small, wicked smile tilted her lips, and she did a little dance step as she crossed to her House table.

Theo and Rowena met her with loud demands to know what had taken so long and why she hadn't told them she was really Lily Malfoy – _the_ Lily Malfoy – and why she hadn't told them that her father was Harry Potter, the Hero of the Wizarding World. She sat down between Theo and another new Ravenclaw, trying to look unruffled by all the attention focused on her, and her father's words at the station came back to her.

_You'll be out there in the school, unprotected, where people know more about you than you want them to know and think they have the right to judge you._

Were Rowena and Theo going to judge her now, she wondered? Were they going to look at her funny, because she had the most famous mother in the wizarding world—a mother who wasn't supposed to _be_ a mother at all, who had nearly gone to prison for having a child, and who scared all the students at Hogwarts silly just by being more powerful and more beautiful than any person was supposed to be? She wished she had had the nerve to insist on Hufflepuff. The Hufflepuffs were kinder, less judgmental children than the Ravenclaws, for the most part, and Iffy always felt comfortable with them. But it was too late now. For better or worse, she was a Ravenclaw.

* * *

Much of her nervousness faded away during the feast, and by the time she stepped into the Ravenclaw common room, she was more excited than worried. It was a grand room, with a vaulted ceiling and a huge fireplace. The chairs were all blue, with bronze stitching, and they were much nicer than the ones in the Gryffindor Tower, though to Iffy they looked kind of stiff. She liked the colors. They reminded her of the baby blanket her father kept in a trunk in her room, knitted by Mrs. Weasley, which was sapphire blue with a big silver I on it. Blue had always been her color, so maybe she was a real Ravenclaw after all.

The First Year girls were led up a steep stairway by a prefect and shown into a room full of blue-curtained beds. Iffy's belongings, including her satchel full of Auntie Hermione's manuscript, were arranged neatly around one of them. She crossed to it and plumped down on the mattress to stare at the room. Theo sat on the bed to her right, still eyeing her with avid curiosity. Rowena was across from them, next to Viola Adams. The fifth girl in the room was a cheerful girl named Adelaide, who had already told them all about her mixed-blood family and how much she hated her name and how many books she had read about Hogwarts before coming here.

Iffy regarded the dormitory sadly, thinking of her own little room in the tower by the hospital wing. It was much smaller than this, but much more comfortable, and the thought of it standing empty all night—her mother wandering about the flat alone, with her father off at work and Iffy in the Ravenclaw dormitory—made her throat tighten with tears.

"What's the matter, Iffy?" Adelaide asked.

"Nothing. I was just feeling a little homesick."

"But you _are_ home," Rowena pointed out.

Iffy glanced around the room again, her mouth drooping in spite of her best efforts to the contrary. "No, I'm not."

At that moment, a strange little face poked around the door, bat-ears erect and pencil-nose twitching. Viola gave a shriek, then laughed at her own foolishness. "Oh! It's only a house-elf!”

Iffy turned swiftly and broke out in a wide smile. "Dobby!"

"Good evening to the young ladies," Dobby said, bowing as he scuttled into the room. "Dobby is sorry to intrude."

"You're not intruding," Iffy assured him. "I'm _so_ glad to see you!"

"Mistress Iphigenia is a Ravenclaw now! Dobby is very happy for her."

"Oh, do stop calling me that. You know how my father hates it."

"Dobby is most sorry, Miss Iffy. Dobby will try to remember."

Iffy laughed outright at that. "You've been saying that for eleven years and haven't remembered yet."

Dobby's enormous green eyes twinkled lovingly at her. "Master Draco told Dobby to fetch a book from Miss Iffy."

"That's right! Aunt Hermione sent it. It's here…" Iffy grabbed her satchel and pulled the buckles open. She needed both hands to hold the great stack of parchment, and a few pages spilled to the floor as she tugged it free of the satchel. Dobby retrieved them and laid them carefully on top of the pile. Iffy started to hand him the manuscript but halted and pulled it back against her chest. "Do you… do you think I might deliver it, Dobby?"

"Oh, no! Miss Iffy must not be out in the castle this late! It is against the rules."

"Yes, but…"

"Miss Iffy is a student at Hogwarts, now. She is a Ravenclaw. She must not break the rules."

"Oh, bother. I want to go home, just for a few minutes."

Dobby shook his head 'til his ears flapped. "Master Draco would be angry."

Iffy sighed and thrust the pile of parchment at him. "Is he angry that I'm a Ravenclaw and not a Slytherin?"

Dobby's eyes began to twinkle again. "Not angry. But he walks all about the room, muttering _Ravenclaw? How could she be a Ravenclaw?_ and paying no attention to where he is going. He has tripped over Dobby twice already."

Iffy giggled, her eyes suddenly prickly with tears. "I'm sorry, Dobby. I didn't mean to get you trodden on or to… or to disappoint him."

Dobby eyed her solemnly, all teasing gone from his manner, and he put out a hand to touch her knee. "Miss Iffy knows better than that. She knows that Master Draco and Harry Potter are always proud of her, whether she is Slytherin, Ravenclaw or even Hufflepuff."

Her tears quickened, and she opened her mouth to give Dobby a message for her mother, but remembered suddenly that there were four strangers listening to her. Flushing slightly, she muttered, "Wait just a moment, Dobby."

Then she fished a piece of parchment, quill and ink from her trunk and knelt on the floor to use its top as a writing desk. Her note was short and to the point, and it took her only a few minutes to scrawl it across the page, but the Vox charm was difficult for her, and she had to do it twice before she got it right. Then she read the note over once more and nodded in satisfaction. It said:

 

_Dearest Mum,_

_I thought it would be great fun to surprise you at the Sorting. Now I'm not so sure. Are you dreadfully angry that I'm not in Slytherin or Gryffindor? Dobby says you're not. I hope he's right. I like the Ravenclaw dormitory, but it isn't home and I miss my room. I miss my mum. I love you_ terribly _, and I would ask Dobby to give you a kiss from me, but I think you'd break his neck if he tried, and poor Dobby always tries to follow orders._

_Don't stay up too late reading. You know it makes you grouchy in class._

_Love,_

_Your Baby Ferret_

 

She handed it to Dobby and said, with a sniff, "Give that to Master Draco and tell him I've already done the charm on it." By doing the Vox charm herself she made the note read itself in her own voice, which she knew would make her mother happy. "The password is _ferret_."

"Dobby will give the note to Master Draco. Good night, Miss Iffy. Good night to all the young ladies."

With a bob of his head and a twinkling smile at Iffy, he disappeared with a crack.

"Ooh," Adelaide breathed. "I've never seen a house-elf in person before. Is he yours?"

"He works for Professor Dumbledore, but he's been looking after my family since I was born. And he was my grandparents' house-elf before that. That's why he calls…" She broke off, biting her lip, and turned away from the avid gazes of her housemates. "Never mind."

Viola plunked down on the bed next to Iffy and looked at her with frank sympathy. "You don't talk about your parents much, do you?"

"What do you mean?" Iffy demanded, bridling at the implied criticism.

"Just now, you were going to say something about your… about Professor Malfoy, but you stopped. Why?"

Iffy flushed a dark red, her eyes sparkling with indignation. "Why do you want to hear about him?"

"I didn't say I did," Viola pointed out.

Iffy dropped her eyes to her lap and mumbled something incoherent.

"You don't have to talk about your parents, if you don't want to, but you also don't have to stop yourself every time you're about to mention one of them. We all know who they are…"

" _Every_ one knows who they are."

"That must be weird."

"How could it _not_ be weird?" Rowena cut in, her sharp eyes fixed on Iffy's face.

"I only know about them, because my mum fought at Azkaban," Adelaide said. "She told me all about how Harry Potter killed the Dark Lord. That was after you were born, wasn't it?"

Iffy nodded.

"Did you see the battle?"

"No. I was at Hogwarts."

"But your parents both fought."

"Mine did, too," Theo said.

"And mine," Rowena added.

"Mine didn't," Viola said, "but my father was at the Wizengamot hearing when Professor Dumbledore forced them to give Lily back… Oh." Her eyes widened. "That was you, wasn't it? I mean, all those stories and all those terrible things that happened… They were about you and your family."

"Yes," Iffy whispered, wishing she could retreat into the mattress and disappear.

"I've heard the stories since I was a baby, but it never seemed like they were about real people. They were just… _stories_. Is it true that your grandmother, Narcissa Malfoy, rescued you from the Dark Lord and took you to St. Mungo’s? To a healer there?”

"That was my Gran," Theo said, her voice full of awe.

"Iphigenia Fox," Iffy said, nodding. "I was named for her."

"But your real name is Lily."

"After my father's mother, Lily Potter. My whole name is Lily Iphigenia Potter Malfoy."

"Why don't you use Lily? And why don't you use your father's last name?"

Iffy shrugged uncomfortably. "It's complicated. It's got something to do with making sure I'm legally as much a Malfoy as a Potter. Plus, my father says that Potter is a cursed name. But I don't see how Malfoy is any better, with all of my mother’s family dead or in prison or shunned by the wizarding world for being Death Eaters. My mum is the only Malfoy left that anyone will speak to, and most people won't speak to him either, which is completely mental, since he helped my dad save the world and kill Voldemort and he's a better wizard than the lot of them put together."

The girls exchanged uneasy glances, then Theo prompted, "What about your first name?"

"Everyone recognizes it. You can't say Lily Potter or Lily Malfoy without people looking at you sideways and whispering. Most people don't know that my name is also Iphigenia, so they don't make the connection… unless they know my mother."

"Why would that matter?"

Iffy rolled her eyes at Theo. "Have you _seen_ my mother?"

Theo blushed, and Iffy knew that Draco Malfoy had made another conquest without even knowing it. "He's… kind of hard to miss."

"Yes. No one forgets him. And no one who's ever seen him would mistake me for anyone else's daughter."

Theo laughed a little awkwardly. "You did tell me that you got everything from your mother's side of the family. Now I know what you meant."

"You don't look the least little bit like Harry Potter," Adelaide said. "I've seen zillions of pictures of him, and he's got black hair and…"

"We all know what he looks like," Rowena said, tartly. Then, with a hint of malice in her voice, she added, "But you _wouldn't_ look like him.”

"What does that mean?" Iffy countered, suspiciously.

"Well, he isn't really your father, is he?"

Iffy stiffened. "That's a lie! You take it back this instant or I'll…"

"Rowena, how could you say something like that?" Theo demanded, cutting off Iffy's furious response. "Everyone knows Harry Potter is her father.”

"No, everyone knows that Dumbledore and Potter _said_ he was her father, but really it was You-Know-Who…"

" _Don't you ever say that again!_ " Iffy howled, leaping to her feet and pointing her wand at Rowena's forehead.

"Don't, Iffy!" Viola cried, trying to snatch at her arm. "She didn't mean it!"

"Yes I did," Rowena said, smugly, though there was fear lurking in her eyes when she looked at the wand. "But I don't know what she's getting so upset about. She's got the most powerful wizarding blood ever, and she's got Harry Potter to pretend he's her father…"

"He's not pretending! He _is_ my father! And if you think for one minute that my mother would…"

Rowena flipped a dismissive hand at her, cutting her off. "No one says he _enjoyed_ it."

" _Rowena!_ " Theo gasped.

"And don't you think it's kind of silly to keep calling him _Mother_ , like he really is one? Come on, Iffy! That's just _creepy_."

Iffy uttered a scream of pure rage and threw herself bodily at Rowena. Luckily for the other girl, she was small enough that Viola and Theo could grab her out of the air and restrain her, but it took all their strength to do it. They were still trying to wrest her wand from her, a task made more difficult by Rowena's continued taunts, when someone pounded on the door and demanded to know what the racket was about.

Dead silence gripped the room, and Iffy sank limply onto her bed.

Theo exchanged a glance with Viola, then called, "Nothing! We'll be quiet!"

The older student muttered something about stupid Firsties and shuffled away to find her own bed. Iffy sat very still, her face rigid and her eyes dry, too angry to give the other girls the satisfaction of seeing her cry, while Theo and Viola tried to make normal conversation as they prepared for bed. Rowena maintained a smug silence, and Adelaide looked doubtfully from one girl to the other, her face twisted with distress.

Suddenly, Iffy shot to her feet and crossed to the door.

"Where are you going?" Theo demanded. Iffy ignored her. "Iffy, you can't go out in the halls!"

Iffy slammed out of the room without answering. She knew that Theo was right, and she didn't dare brave the halls after lights-out, especially not on her first night at school. But she couldn't stand to be in the same room with Rowena a moment longer, nor was she at all sure that the other girls hadn't believed Rowena's disgusting lies.

She ran down the stairs to the common room and pulled a chair up by the dying fire. Her eyes were still dry. The tears wouldn't come. But the ache in her chest threatened to suffocate her, and she was still shaking with anger as she curled up in the chair.

A loud crack beside her brought her eyes open, and she turned to find Dobby standing in front of the hearth. He regarded her with enormous, sorrowful eyes.

"Is the Little Mistress in trouble?"

"No, Dobby, I'm fine. What are you doing here?"

"Master Draco sent Dobby with this." He held out a folded piece of parchment.

Iffy snatched the letter and clutched it tightly to her chest. "Thank you. You'd better go home now."

"Not if the Little Mistress needs Dobby."

"I don't. Is… is my father home, yet?"

"No. Harry Potter works very hard these days."

"Then go home, Dobby, and don't let Master Draco fall asleep over a book."

Dobby twinkled at her. "Dobby has much magic, but not enough for that. Good night, Mistress Iffy."

"Good night, Dobby."

He disappeared with a pop, leaving Iffy alone with her mother's letter. She opened it and turned it so that the firelight fell on the fine black pen strokes.

 

_My dear Lily,_

_Of course I'm not angry with you, only surprised. I thought you would want to be a Gryffindor, like Harry. You may look like me on the outside, but you're pure Harry on the inside, and he's a Gryffindor lion to the core. Still, the Sorting Hat is never wrong, so you must be a Ravenclaw in spite of us. You'll get used to the dormitory. Just be grateful it's not the Slytherin dungeon—that place is always damp and cold, and the rats down there are the size of Creeveys._

_Harry says you've been threatening to hex people. I hope you’ve thought better of it. Take my word for it that intimidating people doesn’t solve anything, and if you start out by fighting over every insult, you’ll spend the rest of your days at Hogwarts in detention._

_So try, my love, to control the Slytherin in you and remember whose daughter you are. The Great Harry Potter would never hex his housemates, even if they made off-color jokes about his parents. And don't send anymore letters back with Dobby. You belong in bed._

_All my love,_

_Mum_

 

Iffy read the letter through several times, her eyes filling with the tears that would not come before. Finally, when she could no longer see the writing through her tears, she crumpled the letter up against her chest, closed her eyes, and surrendered herself to an orgy of weeping.

She was calming down considerably and drifting toward sleep, when she heard someone pad softly down the stairs and into the room. Hastily wiping her eyes, she peered over the back of the chair. It was a girl named Sarah whom she had known for years, a Prefect.

“Hallo, Iffy, what are you doing out of bed?”

“Just sitting,” Iffy said, a trifle thickly.

The girl crossed the room to where she sat and perched on the arm of her chair. Peering at Iffy’s blotchy face and reddened eyes, she said, “You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Iffy wiped at her cheeks again and gave a determined sniff.

“Feeling homesick? A lot of kids are homesick at first. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“That’s not it.” Iffy stared at the dying fire, her face rigid with anger and her winter eyes glowing orange in the ruddy light. “I just had to get out of that room before I got myself expelled.” The red light flared up in her eyes, and her voice grew louder, more cutting, with every word. “That would give them all a laugh, wouldn’t it? Lily Malfoy, daughter of the famous Harry Potter, getting kicked out her first day at Hogwarts for turning her Housemate into a _toad!?_ ”

“That doesn’t sound like you. The Baby Ferret I know would never attack one of her housemates!”

“Oh, yes I would!” Iffy replied, hotly. “After what she said, she deserves it!”

“Who?”

“Rowena Diggle. She’s a stupid, spiteful, hateful little… little…”

“Okay, take a damper.”

Iffy clamped her mouth shut on the spate of insults that were poised on the tip of her tongue and crossed her arms in a gesture of disgust strongly reminiscent of her Auntie Hermione.

“Now, tell me what Diggle’s done get you so cheesed off.”

“She opened her foul mouth.”

“And said?” When Iffy refused to reply, she gave her a nudge with her elbow and said, “Come on, Iff, we’re old friends. You can tell me.”

“I can’t repeat it.”

A look of understanding dawned on Sarah’s face. “I can probably guess. It was about your parents, wasn’t it?”

Iffy sucked in a breath, visibly braced herself, and ground out, “She said I’m not really a Potter. She said _Voldemort_ was my father.”

"I've heard that before, but I never believed it,” Sarah said in a matter-of-fact way.

"She made it sound like… like my mother…"

"That's enough. I don't need that image in my head. Listen, Iff, I know people can say some really ghastly things, and most of them don't realize how much they're hurting you when they do. Rowena probably believes that rubbish, and she probably doesn't think she's insulting your mother. She doesn't understand how you can look at Professor Malfoy as your mum, because to her, he isn't."

"Does she think I was born out of thin air?" Iffy demanded, sourly.

"She doesn't think at all. But give her some time to get to know you, and she'll love you like the rest of us."

"If she doesn't?"

"Then she isn't worth your trouble."

"I just want to go home," Iffy said, tiredly, letting her head fall back against the chair.

Sarah patted her shoulders. “This is your home now, and you’ve got to find a way to deal with Rowena Diggle and everyone else who’s got an opinion about your parents. Unfortunately, there are a lot of them.”

“I wish they’d let me be a Hufflepuff.”

"Why would you want to be a Hufflepuff?"

"Because they're nicer than anyone else. They don't call me rude things or say I'm… I’m…"

“Well, I’m glad you’re a Ravenclaw.”

"I asked to be a Hufflepuff, but the Sorting Hat said I couldn't. He said my mother would…" She instinctively broke off the sentence, swallowing her words, and Sarah gave her shoulders another pat.

"Everyone pretends to be afraid of Professor Malfoy, you know, but they don't mean it. Even the Sorting Hat.”

“Rowena called him _creepy._ That’s when I tried to hex her.”

“She’s a jealous cat and you should ignore her. Are the other girls a bit nicer?”

“Yeah… maybe. Theo—Theodora Fox—fancies my mum. I think Adelaide is more curious about my dad. All of them stare at me like I’m one of Hagrid’s dangerous creatures, and I’ll explode at any minute.”

“Well, if you’re threatening to hex them…”

Iffy gave a ragged laugh and felt some of the anger seep out of her. “I won’t. Dad says I need to be dignified and civilized. And Mum says, if I start fighting now, I’ll spend the next seven years in detention.”

“They both have a point.”

Iffy sighed. “I’d still like to glue Rowena’s tongue to the roof of her mouth.”

Sarah laughed and stood up. “Come on, Iffy, you need to get some sleep.”

“I suppose.” She got to her feet and fell into step beside the older girl.

Sarah draped a companionable arm around her shoulders. “You know, I heard a great story about your mum. I don’t know if it’s true, but I like to think it is.”

“What story?”

“That he once glued Ron Weasley to a wall.”

Iffy giggled at that. “Really? Uncle Ron?”

“That’s what I heard. And that Professor Flitwick had to unglue him, because no one else could figure out how to do it.”

“Oooh, I’ll have to ask Uncle Ron if it’s true! I bet it is. They’re best friends, but they’re always doing mental stuff like that to each other.”

“Well, next time Professor Malfoy tells you not to hex people, you remind him about glueing his best friend to a wall. That’ll shut him up.”

Iffy giggled again and bounced up the first couple of stairs with her usual excess of energy. “No, it won’t, but it’ll be fun, anyway. Good night, Sarah. Thanks.”

“Good night, Iffy.”

*** *** ***

Harry tumbled out of the fireplace in Dumbledore's office, dusted himself off, and looked around. It was very late and the Headmaster was nowhere to be seen, but Fawkes was awake, as usual, and favored Harry with a welcoming squawk. Harry paused to tickle his magnificent scarlet head on the way out the door.

Two minutes later, he was stepping through the portrait hole into his own suite. A couple of candles burned in the wall sconces—left by Dobby, no doubt—and a droning voice came from the shadows under the window. Knowing precisely what he would find, Harry tiptoed across the sitting room toward the window, a smile pulling at his lips. Holding out his hand, he muttered, " _Lumos_."

The ball of wandfire that sprang up over his palm showed him Draco seated at his desk, his head resting on an open book, fast asleep. The book was reading itself in such a dull, monotonous voice that Harry was not at all surprised his dragon had passed out while listening to it.

Tossing the wandfire into the air so that it hung above his head, Harry leaned over and murmured, "Is this how you greet the returning hero?"

Draco started awake at the sound of his voice, snapping upright in his chair so quickly that he would have bloodied Harry's lip with his head, if Harry had not moved smartly back. It took Draco only a second to recognize the presence beside him, and he turned to smile tiredly at his partner.

"Harry? What time is it?"

"Late. You left your book running."

"Oh." Draco flicked his adamant fingers over the book and the droning voice cut off in mid word. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair.

Harry stepped up close behind him, resting his hands on Draco's shoulders and letting the other man's gleaming head lean against his midriff. Warmth and a trickle of wizarding power flowed between them, a silent greeting and caress.

"Did you defend your hero title tonight?" Draco asked, sleepily.

"Forget about work. What happened at the Sorting ceremony?"

"The Sorting!" Draco once again came upright with a start, and he twisted around to fix his empty gaze on Harry. "She's in Ravenclaw! Can you believe it?"

"Ravenclaw? Hm."

"What does that mean?" Draco demanded. "She'll make a spectacular Ravenclaw!"

"Of course she will. It's just that…" Harry eyed his lover nervously and ventured, "I rather thought she wanted to be in Hufflepuff."

"Hufflepuff! _Hufflepuff?!_ Our daughter is no _Hufflepuff_."

"No, but that's probably because she knew it would upset you. _Mum will have kittens_ was how she put it."

"What exactly are you accusing me of? Making Lily into a Hufflepuff, or denying her the right to be one?"

"Neither. I'm saying that she cares a little too much what you think and doesn't want to disappoint you."

Draco scowled furiously at him for a moment, then let his mask slip to show the hurt behind it. "She didn't tell me that."

"You talked to her after the Sorting?"

"No. She sent Dobby with a note. Where did I put that thing?" He patted the surface of the desk, trying to find the scrap of parchment without knocking it onto the floor, then sighed and flicked his finger negligently. The note flew out of his pocket and into his crystalline hand. He held it out toward Harry. "I could tell she was unhappy, but I didn't know she was hoping for a different House."

Harry read the note, imagining Iffy's sweet voice reading the words as Draco would have heard it, and understood immediately what his dragon had meant about her not sounding happy. If her references to missing her room and her mum were not enough, her signature was proof that she was feeling both vulnerable and lonely. Iffy never used her childhood nickname, Baby Ferret, unless she was wishing she was still four years old and could crawl into Draco's lap to sleep against his shoulder. One glance at Draco's face told Harry that he was wishing the same thing.

"Do you miss her?" he asked, softly.

Draco grimaced at him. "Of course I bloody well miss her! But it's not like she's on the other side of the world."

"No, just far away enough to make the flat feel empty. Come here, Dragon." Sliding his hand down Draco's arm, he caught his hand and tugged on it. Draco obediently rose to his feet and let Harry pull him into his arms. Their bodies settled together easily and perfectly.

"She should have told me she wanted to be in Hufflepuff."

Harry looped both arms around Draco's waist and dropped a playful kiss on his lips. "If she really wanted it, she would have. You know Lily."

"I thought I did."

"Don't sulk. Kiss me."

Draco laughed and slipped his arms about Harry's neck. His kiss burned through Harry's body, setting his blood afire, and called up his wizarding power in a singing, golden net. Harry groaned softly and fastened his mouth more firmly to the beautiful, tantalizing one beneath it, giving and demanding at once. Draco's head fell back and all his weight rested against Harry's supporting arms, as he surrendered to his lover's touch as only Draco could.

When Harry finally pulled his mouth away from Draco's to nuzzle the soft spot beneath his jaw, Draco murmured, "You owe me an apology for being so late."

"One apology, coming up." Tightening his hold, he lifted the smaller man’s feet from the floor and carried him easily into the bedroom. He kicked the door shut behind them, then crossed to the bed and tossed Draco down on it. Draco sprawled on his back in the middle of the wide mattress, laughing up at Harry and looking so breathtaking, so magnificent, that Harry had to stand and stare at him for a moment in sheer amazement.

"What's the matter?" Draco asked, a wicked twinkle lurking in his blank eyes. "Forgotten what to do?"

"The one thing I'll _never_ forget is what to do with a gorgeous Slytherin in my bed."

"Prove it," Draco purred.

Harry tossed his robe away, kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the mattress to lie beside Draco. Propping himself up on one elbow, he leaned over the other man and brushed a teasing kiss across his lips. Draco lifted his head, nipping lightly at Harry's lip to draw him into a deeper kiss. Then he sighed contentedly when Harry's mouth came down hard on his.

Harry unfastened Draco's robe with the ease of long familiarity, then moved to the layers of clothing beneath it. Draco gave him no help, only tormented him with that incendiary kiss and the occasional, almost hesitant brush of his hands against Harry's ribs, arms and throat, as if he longed to pull the other man against him but was afraid to do it.

Finally, Harry pulled back to focus his whole attention on ridding Draco of his clothing, earning a growl of frustration from his lover.

"Hold still," Harry chided, as Draco reached to clasp his head and draw it down to him again.

"Why don't you hurry up, you clumsy Gryffindor git?" Harry laughed, down deep in his throat, and Draco groaned. "I could die of old age, waiting for you."

A moment later, Harry flung away the last piece of offending fabric and crawled back onto the mattress to stretch himself out beside his love. He stroked one hand down Draco's ribs and flank, savoring the feel of his incredible porcelain skin, then drew his finger back up to caress the elegant line of his jaw. Draco's eyes fell nearly closed, until Harry could see only a sliver of grey gleaming at him from beneath the pale lashes, and he tilted his chin up to revel in Harry's touch.

"Tell me something, Dragon," Harry whispered in his ear.

"Hm."

"Do I still make you see stars?"

"Every time."

"Do you still love me?"

Draco smiled, and a shaft of pure joy went through Harry's heart. "Kiss me, you prat."

"I love you," Harry breathed, as he sank down to claim those secretly smiling lips. "I love you, Draco Malfoy."

Draco's arms and mouth and body opened to him without hesitation or restraint, and Harry came to him with the same flawless trust, the same overwhelming passion they had always shared. He made love to Draco as only Harry could, pouring his power and love into the other man. And at the height of the firestorm, Draco quietly slipped free of his own body, following the current of power to its source, where he found the rest of his soul waiting for him.

Draco curled himself around and in Harry’s heart, filling it to the point of bursting. Then he spoke directly into his mind, whispering, _I love you, Harry. I've always loved you. Love me again…_

 

**_Finis_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it, the end of the story. I hope you enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed spending so much time with my boys.


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